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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

LETTERS AND STUDIES ON
LANDSCAPE ART.

REV. R. ST. JOHN TYRWHITT, M. A.

Formerly Student and Rhetoric Reader of Ch. Ch., Oxford.

WITH AN AUTHORISED REPRODUCTION OF THE LESSONS
AND WOODCUTS IN PROFESSOR

RUSKIN'S 'ELEMENTS OF DRAWING.'

MACMILLAN AND CO.
1874

\_All rights reserved ~\

OXFORD :

BY E. PICKARD HALL AND J. H. STACY,
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY.

PREFACE.

THE original introduction to this book may partly
account for the heterogeneous nature of its con-
tents. A carefully-made index rerum has been added
to it, which may, I trust, atone for this in great measure,
to readers in search of hints on English Landscape.
But for further excuse, I should like to explain in a
straightforward manner how the book came to be what
it is.

First, I received a kind invitation from Messrs. Roberts
of Boston, and some American friends, to write a book
on Landscape. It was to be very elementary as to
practice, and to begin at the beginning, with the ordinary
rules of drawing. It was also to be made palatable by
means of descriptions and verbal sketches : and was
to take the form of transactions of a Sketching Club,
whose members were to exchange ideas by letter or
conversation : this involved digressions into criticism and
history of art.

Then it appeared that though my friends on the other
side approved the first part or two as useful to students
of drawing, they wanted a little more description of
the English country life and ways, with which I am
partially acquainted ; and it was mentioned that as male
and female characters existed in the book, they would
have to make love to each other. Some excursuses on
fox-hunting were also desired. These demands were
accordingly supplied, I trust in moderation.

a 3

PREFACE.

This was variety enough, in all conscience ; and Mr.
Macmillan having seen the first two parts of the book,
undertook to publish it when completed, on this side
the Atlantic. But it now further received the appro-
bation of the Slade Professor of Art at Oxford, who,
with a kindness which his friends have learned to take
as quite a matter of course, gave me leave to use as
illustrations of my various lessons, any or all of the
wood-blocks first employed in his ' Elements of Draw-
ing/ which he does not propose to re-issue. Further-
more, he commissioned me to reproduce in my own
way all such parts of his instructions in that book as
might seem to suit my purpose. It had been all along
to produce a book on practical art, which should not
only direct adult students, educated in other matters,
in an elementary course of drawing, but should deal in
some degree with principles ; and if possible, give some
amusement and interest by the way. On re-reading
Elements of Drawing, I found, as may be expected,
that I had repeated many of its lessons already ; it
was now my object to omit as little as possible of the
remaining substance of the book. And, as many of
the Professor's observations and descriptions can only
be given in his own language, it is quite possible that
they will appear rather as purple patches in my own
work. It cannot be helped, and is'by no means to be
lamented.

For the characters and narrative chapters of the book,
all I can say is, that there is as little of them as possible,
that they are a good deal from life ; and that the parts
relating to flood and field are strictly after nature and
experience. Art might very possibly be better and purer
without field-sports of any kind. In theory, I suppose
sport would mean the same thing as gymnastic exercise,

PREFACE.

vii

and should be confined to the Pentathlum, with horse
and chariot-racing. I cannot argue this, or the endless
cognate questions, in this book, and have said my say on
the subject elsewhere. But the chase in its wilder and
truer forms is inextricably connected with the most de-
lightful and romantic passages of Scottish and English
landscape, and I do not believe they will ever be se-
parated from it. For luxurious butchery of domestic
pigeons, and multitudinous murder of tame pheasants,
I have never shared in or witnessed either, and I loathe
the idea of both.

To quote a distinction made not long ago on a far
more important matter, this book may be said to be a
series of papers on Landscape Art — that is to say, on all
works of art in which landscape is concerned — and to
contain, as is hoped, a sound practical system of drawing
and painting from Nature in water-colours. It has
taken the form of a set of supposed letters, essays, and
conversations on various Art subjects, such as are likely
to be exchanged between fairly good critics and well-
educated men and women in one of the Sketching or
Drawing Clubs which are now growing so numerous in
this country. It seems that these societies may at no
distant time have a beneficial influence on education.
They encourage the study of natural beauty, and quicken
the senses to which it appeals. By ' natural beauty'
I understand, pleasure derived from the external ap-
pearance of things intended by Divine Law to sup-
ply men with contemplative enjoyment. Further, the
real relation between fine art and science is founded
on the connexion between external form and inner
structure, the outsides and insides of things. Art con-
templates the one, Science investigates the other, and
though art is and ought to be pursued for her own sake,

viii

PREFACE.

she is the willing handmaid of Science. The great and
increasing importance of illustration in various studies
proves the value of graphic teaching. As long as form
is connected with inner structure, Art must bear on
education in the physics of the things that are. As long
as the mind is capable of receiving clearer or fuller
information by the use of symbol in form or colour, so
long must Art bear on the histories of the things that
have been.

It has seemed best to have names and characters, and
make them write or talk the matter of this book to each
other. But the object, after all, is practical teaching
or discussion, though descriptions are here and there
inserted of the picturesque of ordinary English life, as
far as any such thing exists. I do not think it necessary
to have in any disagreeable person. Art has to do with
what is beautiful : and in landscape, at least, beauty may
be sufficiently well contrasted with grand, or melancholy,
or even distressing objects, without using things or char-
acters mean, base, or brutal, which the regular novelist
may be justified in employing.

It will, I think, be a sufficient guarantee for the edu-
cational value of the present book, that it contains a
reproduction of Professor Ruskin's lessons, in a yet more
popular form than that in which they first appeared.

R. ST. JOHN TYRWHITT.

Ketilby, Oxford.

CONTENTS.

Introduction, Club and Critic 1-5

CHAP. I. — An Art Student in Oxford. Competition. Venice, Florence,
and Baker-street. Art and Poverty. Shadow of Disappointment.
Flora. Rules for a Sketching Club. The Professor. Drawing a jam-
pot 6-24

CHAP. II. — The Great Master. Perspective made easy. Way into a
picture. Transparent and body-colour. Form by shadow. How to
learn Gradation. Over-ambitious subject 25-37

CHAP. III. — Flora and May. Deer-stalking. Sketches and studies.
Natural realism and its value. Evenness of finish .... 38-51

CHAP. IV. — West Highland scenery and colours. Grouse. Squared
glass and its uses. Hamerton on portrait as preliminary study to
landscape. Thorough or professional work. Elementary exercises in
form and colour. Grays 52_73

CHAP. V. — Eggs is eggs. A lecture on the Renaissance . . . 74- 102

CHAP. VI. — Hawkstone Holt and Susan Milton. An Autumn study.

103-1 28

CHAP. VII. — Tree-drawing ab initio. Harding and Turner. The Testudo.
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 1 29-141

CHAP. VIII.— Oxford. Port Meadow. May and Charley. A day with
the Heythrop. The Chase as a subject of painting . . . 142-158

CHAP. IX. — A Garden Chat. Tree-drawing. Art and Science. Leaves
and branches from nature. Miniature and distance. Copying from
Turner and A. Diirer. Examples 159-188

CONTENTS.

CHAP. X. — Landseer and Hunt, Diirer and Turner. Intelligent work.
Graphic power. Spring. Going for the facts. ' Doing ' grass. How
to study the Liber Studiorum. Organic laws. Radiation and liberty
of foliage. Art and moral habit. Individuality .... 189-223

CHAP. XI. — A truant lover. Difficulties of colour and choice of subject.
Rules and suggestions. Longing for mountains. Motives. Paint your
impressions. A palette. Mixed tints. Matching landscape colours.
Study of drapery and wild flowers. Blending wet colour. A parting.
Lady Susan Cawthorne 224-252

CHAP. XII.— The Rev. Ripon. Club letters. Black and white as colours.
Dress. 'Advancing' and 'retiring' colours. Turner's Ehrenbreit-
stein. Laws of composition. Unity, Symmetry, Curvature, Radiation,
Harmony, &c. Calais Sands. Bridges. Good and bad curves.
Colour and finish. A galloping outline 253-298

CHAP. XIII. — Contrasts and harmonies from nature. Finish, technical
and intellectual. Growing old. Spring. Landscape never fails.

299-3 1 5

CHAP. XIV. — Red Scaurs and Ravensgill Towers. Salmon-fishing. Razor
Brigg Cast. Turneresque study from nature on gray paper . 316-330

CHAP. XV. — Home and doubts 33!-335

CHAP. XVI. — A Hawkstone dinner-party and a lover's quarrel 336-351

CHAP. XVII. — 'A cracker' with the Goredale. Redintegratio. Old
Warhawk's grave 352-370

Index 371

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Frontispiece, ' Like Going,' V. Brooks, after R. St. J. Tynvhitt. See p. 295.

PAGE

2 33

3 (Ruskin, Elements of Drawing, pp. 9, 17) . . . -35

4 » » P- 175 • • • • 133

5 » » P- 173 • • • • i.H

6 „ „ p. 79 . . . .171

7 » p. 85 .... 1 7+

8 „ „ p. 86 ... . 175
9. „ „ p. 116 ... . 180

10 „ „h p. 102 . . . . 181

11 „ „ p. in . . . . 182

12 „ „ p. 113 ... 183

13 .» » P- 114 • ... • 184

14 „ „ p. 104 .... 186

15 . „ „ P- 31 .... 187

16 „ , „ p. 83 .... 188

17 » » p. 123 .... 202

18 „ „ p. 124 ... 203

19 » „ p- 127 • • • . 204

20 „ „ p. 210 . . . .212

21 „ „ p. 211 .... 213

22 „ „ p. 161 . . 214

23 „ P- 163 • • • • 215

24 » » P- 243 .... 266

25 » « P- 253 . . ... 268
25 „ „ p. 249 .... 271

27 » » p. 261 .... 275

28 „ „ p. 268 . . . . 278

29 „ p. 271 . . . . 279

30, 31 » » P- 273 • • • • 282

32 „ „ pp. 274, 275 . . .283

33 » » P- 278 • . . . 284
34. 35 » » PP- 282, 283 . . .285

36 » „ p. 300 ... . 290

37 » » .... 296

ERRATA.

Page 257, lines 5 and 6, transpose comma after 'white' and semicolon
after 'greens.'

line 22, for or read a.

Page 258, line 17, for objective read subjective.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

INTRODUCTION.

MANY persons who are interested in Art may not
have heard of an institution of English town
and country life in the middle and upper classes, which
seems to give youths and maidens a good deal of
pleasure and some instruction, and which their utmost
ingenuity has hitherto failed to make in any degree mis-
chievous. We mean the Sketching Clubs, which are.
now extended all over the country. We suppose they
must develop a certain amount of real manual skill
in the operations of Art, and teach perhaps nearly all
that water-colour can teach, at least in landscape
sketching. As a natural consequence, they ought to
improve press criticism a little ; further, they direct
attention to good realist landscape, which is at pre-
sent the best hope of English and American paint-
ing, as far as we can see ; and then they seem to
exercise imagination and fancy very pleasingly, and
in almost every case to produce habits of close ob-
servation, which make all the difference between eyes
and no eyes to a student of a few months' standing.

& / B

(

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

There can be no more valuable habit than that of no-
ticing and observing, and nothing can form it much
better than sketching ; for all knowledge is vision, after
all, by natural eye or by mind's eye. If these societies
only afforded intermission and relief from that sad idle-
ness and emptiness which is one of the dangers of English
middle life, they would be valuable ; but they do more,
and really amount to a means of self-education and
self-expression. To young women in particular they
afford, under good criticism, just what they most want ;
that is to say, help and encouragement to learn some-
thing thoroughly, and in a standard or workmanlike
manner.

Working with the public art schools, which have long
been heavily influenced by the higher criticism of Mr.
Ruskin, and will probably fall more immediately under
his guidance as he completes his forthcoming system of
education in graphic art, the private clubs ought to
make nature and art, or pictorial observation and record,
something like a contribution to human happiness.

Granting the members, viz. a sufficient number of
people who will draw, nothing is easier than to estab-
lish an art-club, and they all go by nearly the same
rules. The sole property of the society generally con-
sists of a portfolio with a leather case ; and their chief
expense, for the most part, is the hire of a critic, who
should also be protected by some strong outer covering.
He is generally a professional workman, and it is under-
stood that he is to be as irritating as possible in a letter
once a month, or once in two months. But his real
work is to examine each member's productions very
carefully, and tell him or her what to do, which is by no
means so easy. There must be a secretary to do all
the work of collecting the drawings, etc. A lady is

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 3

best, because she will have more chance of being at-
tended to, and she should have a committee to help
her, who should never meet unless she asks them.
Rules are generally to the following purpose: 1. Small
annual subscription. 2. Everybody is to send one or
more drawings per month, or every two months, to the
secretary, carriage paid ; if that is not settled people
invariably quarrel about it. 3. Everybody suggests a
subject in turn, and three subjects are generally offered
at a time, the members choosing one or more to illus-
trate as they please. 4. Everybody has a number, and
is known by that only, in the portfolio. 5. When the
portfolio is made up (generally as a large book) it is
sent to the critic, who returns it to the secretary, with
his opinions ; and they are then sent round together to
all the members.

Like everything else, this is all either education, or
pastime, or waste of time, according to the characters
engaged in it ; but its advantages to thorough and will-
ing people seem likely to be great. Much depends
on the critic. Our own ideal, again, would be a lady
thoroughly educated in art, and possessed of that verve,
piquancy, and fluency in letter-writing which so many of
our sisters rejoice in. She ought to gush abundantly
over all the strong points, and vituperate faithfully about
the weak ones, using all her tact and exposing the
latent carelessnesses or ignorances which cause frailty
in execution.

The great difficulty is, to get people to see when their
work won't do, and to try back, and attempt simpler
things where they cannot do the more difficult. They
must be led to understand that there is no such thing as
amateur drawing, in any real sense. There is only good,
bad, and indifferent work, and the good alone is worth

B %

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

doiiig. But students' work on a system, or any pro-
gressive labour, is to be counted as good, though it be
ever so imperfect.

Critic should have a fair knowledge of books, poetry
in particular, but should beware of quoting much him-
self. There is another reason for getting a lady critic if
you can, that it prevents those postal flirtations, in which
a zealous master, who answers questions, is not unlikely
to be involved. All letters should go through the
secretary, of course.

This present book, or series of papers, is intended to
contain a set of supposed letters, talks, and essays on
various Art subjects, — nearly all practical ones, — such as
would be likely to be exchanged between fairly good
critics and well-educated men and women in one of the
societies above described. The writer accepted the
position of critic, never mind where in the English Mid-
lands, a year or two ago. His letters, he is informed,
are considered worth reading ; and he has succeeded in
making all his club draw jam-pots, — an exercise which he
has high authority for considering as a central pons
asinorum in all drawing. He thinks it possible that
clubs as good, and better critics, may soon spring up in
America, — conceiving the pursuit of landscape art to be
as well adapted to country life in the United States as
it unquestionably is to that of England. And sketching
combines so well with the athletic, or campaigning forms
of travel, that it may be commended quite as heartily to
the male sex as the female.

The author thinks it better to have names and cha-
racters, and make them talk or write to each other. To
put them into a regular story would make an art-novel ;
and his object is practical teaching, or discussion. But
verbal sketching is to be the order of the work, and he

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

likes well-known figures with well-remembered land-
scape. Letters on oil and water-colours from nature, — on
Scottish, Norwegian, Swiss, and Italian scenery, — on
drawing in Egypt, the Sinai Desert, and Holy Land,
with references to standard works, to the French and
Belgian schools, etc., are part of his plan, which must
depend for its development on many circumstances as
yet undetermined.

CHAPTER I.

CHARLEY CAWTHORNE always called himself
a painter and glazier. He was a Yorkshireman,
well-bred, and something more than well-looking, who
had taken to art before it came into fashion, because he
liked it very much. He had never been conscious of great
abilities of any kind. Eton and Christ Church had, at all
events taught him taciturnity, if not modesty, in his judg-
ment of his own performances. Oil-painting, as a pur-
suit, is in fact better countenanced in the world than in
our ancient universities. Oxford education has come to
be a money-scramble, like everything else, except that it
is fairly conducted ; and nobody's contempt for culture
and spiritual development can be much stronger than
that of a lad of twenty, who has just tasted unearned
money, and finds that he can get provided for for life if
he makes a decent use of his school-work. The elder
Mr. Osbaldistone himself could not have despised his
son more for taking to poetry, than academic competi-
tion-wallahs did poor Charley's aspirations. ' O, Caw-
thorne's line is high art, his is,' was the pitying summary
of many a thin-lipped little shark, in earnest expectation
of firsts, fellowships, and mandarin promotion. Reading
men scouted the action of any study which did not
promise immediate pay. Nor did that abundance of
happy idleness, which comes and goes in the old quad-
rangles like an irregular tide, give him much more

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

countenance. He went out hunting now and then, and
generally saw the best part of a run ; and he was always
sailing and rowing ; but he hardly cared to be an
authority in horse and dog talk, and was guilty of
professing interest beyond four-oars and eight-oars.
And he was almost entirely deficient in the vices. So
hunting men and boating men took him pleasantly
enough for his own sake, as the right sort of fellow that
one could trust anywhere ; a regular bird, in fact, only
given over to drawing and that sort of bosh. Once he
published some hunting sketches, introducing a few
friends in more or less critical positions, and the
work gained him some profit and glory. But the under-
graduate mind was soon after absorbed by the simpler
forms of photographic art, which consist in representing
the university authorities in general with immense heads,
and rowing in eight-oars. As a graphic aggression on
the Dons, Charley owned this to be admirable ; but he
once observed that 'the lowly youths who practised it
must be extremely mean cusses.' Some of his college
pastors and masters gave Charley what encouragement
they could. A safe passman, willing to read a little
history, and able to talk on any subjects beyond the two
Hinckseys, is always a comfort to his tutor, and well-
regarded in common-room, especially if he ' belongs to
a county.' His tutor, the Rev. Oliver Latchford, was a
Shropshire divine, of equestrian as well as scholarly
habits, and kindly regarded the pupil he did not pretend
to understand. Like many Englishmen, he really cared
for realist landscape only, in matters of art, and for that
landscape which associated itself most nearly with his
own tastes ; that seemed enough for him. Moreover, he
was an Ireland scholar, and double-first, and about as
keen, within his own pretty wide horizon, as the severest

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

form of old Oxford work could make him. He was the
best of all Philistines ; he knew what he knew so well as
to despise half-knowledges, aspirations, emotions, intui-
tions, and visions in general. You might have them if
you liked ; it was the regular thing for nice lads ; only
don't talk about them, at least when sober. ' There may
be clouds,' he once said to Charley ; ' but as your tutor,
I can only recommend you to keep out of them, and go
to the bar.' Still his pupil knew himself to be well
regarded, and the Dons in general liked him ; his pur-
suits were allowed to give him an existence in the in-
tellectual world. And indeed some very natural objec-
tions to his throwing himself away by taking to painting,
had been seriously made and quietly withdrawn at home,
so that he had the inestimable advantage of starting in a
then irregular line of life without quarrelling with the
regulars ; and moreover without expecting very much
of the world. He did not think himself a genius, nor
calculate on being paid for genius ; he was simply very
fond of painting, and thought he might make a livelihood
by making pictures.

So he left Oxford, as the better sort of men used to
leave it in his day, who neither took orders nor made
Oxford their trade ; that is to say, he came away better
educated than informed. What one sees of the place
now makes one fancy that a good many lads go off
informed, or coached, for the present, beyond their
capacity ; somewhat over-rewarded by the prizes offered
through the competitive system, and consequently with
attention fixed, generally for life, on the profits of learn-
ing rather than on learning itself. They have taken in
a stock-in-trade of information ; they expect a high
price for it, and are not quite educated to work with, or
for, or under other men. Cawthorne thought little about

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

profits ; he saw he would have to follow a profession
mainly for its own sake, and he did not expect much
from other men. They could give him little better, in
fact, than he had already. He had the disadvantage, if
it be one, of never having felt poverty himself ; but at
all events he had seen enough to be thankful for his own
place. He had been brought up in common Christian
duties in the old country fashion ; he knew people were
poor and ill, then liked to see them, and do something
himself; he would get a couple of rabbits for a sick
collier, and then go and read to him ; he tried to teach
in a school, but they said he interfered with discipline ;
he gave the parson some of his money ; he talked
Yorkshire to the old men and women at home ; sub-
scribed to Oxford schools and charities, and was liberal
to his accustomed cads. The world seemed pleasant to
him, as it well may to those who lead the English
country life in health. On the whole he knew no state
much more to be desired than his own, and would have
said with Tennyson, ' Let me lead my life.' People told
him all men were shams, and he only answered, that
from his experience horses wefe often still worse.

He had a year at Rome, and another at Florence and
Venice, where hard work in some degree supplied the
want of systematic teaching. And from a lodging on
the Riva dei Schiavoni, with a mind full of Titian and
Tintoret, he came home to settle in a Baker-street
studio, and to ascertain how far the traditions of work
which had contented the Grand Council would suit the
tastes of the British public. He says he has never
answered the question yet, at least not satisfactorily,
but means to go on propounding it after his fashion.

It did not take many months to teach him the dif-
ference between a painter's student-life and his working-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

life ; and how very unlike are the feelings of preparation
for a doubtful struggle to those of the struggle itself.
Instead of the life of observation, and admiring pupilage
under men long passed away, who still live to their
disciples in their greatest deeds only, he had to think
and paint for himself ; and with independence, all the
weight of self-mistrust came on him. Had he been
really called to the work he had undertaken ? No-
body seemed to think so, very much. It was real and
serious enough to him ; he wanted, as he said, to give
his life to art ; — but life is such a long and varied thing,
and art is so hard to define, at least, so as to please your
patrons. As a student he had only wanted success in
the form of increasing skill ; now he wanted it in the
shape of buyers.

As one's faith in any fact is doubled or tripled as soon
as one finds anybody to believe it with one, so in par-
ticular with the belief in one's self; and it tried Charley's
strength to find how few cared for him. He was not
stimulated by poverty, for he wanted for nothing ; he
was welcome in many houses besides his father's town
abode ; he did not like to be thought sulky or priggish ;
rode in the park ; went to a few parties, and looked up
old Oxford friends. People said they envied him ; many
of them really did, and ladies called him Clive Newcome.
But he found it would take years to emancipate himself
from the name of amateur and dillettante. The mere fact
that he was not starving was against him ; but his being
able to keep a horse made him quite unreliable in the
trade. In fact, he was not poor enough to go regularly
in a picture-seller's service, and it is hard to say what
else a young man can do who wants a good commercial
start in painting. Besides, not a few men who liked
him well enough, but who had themselves laboured

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

I T

through years of poverty, if they did not envy him,
would do nothing to help him to fame or commissions.
Life is sadly unequal, and poor Charley's Yorkshire
intuitions soon taught him that most men who have
known want are apt to assume it as a virtue, and to
hang together against the pleasantly nurtured. That
is the worst of popularising a great profession ; you
crowd it with people who cannot well be great ; it tempts
them to undergo all sorts of trials ; they don't always
come well out of them, and get to think that suffering
alone ought to have its reward, and that poverty in
itself naturally evolves genius. Heine was perhaps right
about artistic envy, but he ought to have allowed the
excuses of artistic suffering.

It seemed odd, though indisputable, to our friend, that
his Eton and Oxford education — irrespectively of its
having taught him so little — should stand in his way
with R. A.'s and dealers, and the British merchant, and
everybody, as it seemed, whose bread or whose pleasure
was in oil-painting. He talked of it to his two or three
best-regarded masters. Classics and high subject and
historical painting, — they had all tried them hard, and
they smiled and stroked their beards. Phoebus pointed
to a whole stratum of great cartoons, and said he had to
live by portraits when his soul desired fresco. Stern-
chase showed him a tremendous picture, alive with form
and aflame with colour, and said he had been three years
over that, doing pot-boilers all the time, and it might be
ready in eighteen months more. De Vair's ideals of
Arthur and Dante went off as fast as he liked to paint
them ; but he was tired of them, and of most other
things, and was going into literature. Grief had borne
hard on these three, Cawthorne well knew, and he won-
dered all the more how they clung to their work, — being

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

far too young to have experience of the stage when men
labour because nothing is left them in the world but toil.
He had just got a glimmering of the very practical truth
that his strength was labour and sorrow ; he was to learn
in due time that labour and sorrow might be his
strength.

Meanwhile he worked away with the true wolf's
gallop, and could not be altogether passed over. One
or two Leeds men knew his name and bought his work.
He was heard of as far as Manchester, and a picture or
two went thither ; and now and then an American would
turn up in his studio, like an unimpassioned pilgrim
from beyond the sea, remind him of friends made long
ago in Rome or Venice, and perhaps order a bit of
scenery from one or the other. You never find these
people far wrong when they exert themselves to choose
what they like because they like it. He went into
decoration for a time, and felt something of the strange,
dreamy delight of painting all day in a church-apse,
among quiet hues and dim sounds, as the coloured lights
describe slow arcs below their windows all day long, and
the shadows lengthen and change till the place seems
always another place and one's self never the same
man. He was personally popular ; dealers did wish he
would do nice genre things, like Witchpot, R. A., now,
or get in with the great Mr. Tingrind, so as his things
might 'ave a sale ; for after all he was a pleasant feller
for a swell, with a deal of go, and could paint uncom-
mon honest.

But for all that he was beginning to see very early,
and far ahead, as painters and writers do, the gray,
varying shadow men call by the name of Disappoint-
ment. If a man bought a picture he seldom wanted
■ another ; if the Academy hung one, they hung it very

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

high. What was Giorgione or his followers to them?
they wanted followers of their own. Here was a knot
of young men, like Charley and his friends Hicks and
Brownjones, who had not been taught in the R. A.
school, and were taking a line of subjects not fancied
in the school ; and, in short, they must be put down.
Phoebus was alone and outvoted ; Sternchase and De
Vair were in revolt ; Tingrind didn't care ; so Queen
Elizabeth and the Vicar of Wakefield, bishops and
Aphrodites, lord mayors and masters of hounds, white
muslin and infant piety, made the mixture as before in
Burlington House, and Cawthorne's Ariadnes and Per-
sephones came back to Baker Street, and went north-
ward to come back no more.

Disappointment is a curious old ghost, and is often
not unkind. Sometimes she vanishes, sometimes the
light comes through her, and her grays are many-
coloured. But one thing, Charley said, never could
disappoint, and that was landscape from nature. The
older he grew, the more pleasure there was in painting
his own moors, and the woods he was used to. People
wanted his sketches more than his pictures, as they
always do ; but for a time he took to working from a
hut with proper appliances, and finished faithfully on
the spot, if not exactly out of doors. It seemed to give
him a new start, and the student's freshness of increasing
knowledge and dexterity of record came back to him
again whenever he really strained all his science at a
burn-side.

And about this time, after a grouse drive on Grey-
thwaite Scaurs, news of the artistic world came to him in
the shape of the following letter from a fair and far-off
cousin, a flirt of other days, older than himself, and
settled long ago in the Midlands.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Hawkstone, Bristlebury,
Sept. 12.

My Dear Charles,

It seems hardly respectful to call you Charley,
although I never can find anybody who knows you by
any other name ; and we have all been talking of your
pictures all last week ; that is to say, we women have :
men at this time of the year are always quarrelling
about central-fire and pin-fire, or else they are deep in
dogs. You must know I have a great favour to ask for
myself, and a good many others, apropos of our Sketch-
ing Society. Don't be angry, and talk about the im-
pudence of these creatures ; we want you to be our
critic. Only just be good a moment while I coax you
about it, — only by letter, — and think of how you would
have done anything, so long ago, when you were little !
There are a great many of us, you know ; some swells,
and some good artists, I really think, in an amateur, or
ladies'-exhibition sort of way ; though, by the bye, we
have our share of gentlemen. There is no keeping them
out, and really, if we did, I do not think the girls would
like it. But we are rather tired of dear old Mr. Hog-
badger, the Bristlebury art-master, and so he is of us ;
and he says he wants to paint a little for himself and
the Royal Academy. Besides, he does not laugh at us
enough, and being only scolded is nothing, by post.
He used to point out wrong perspectives and bad draw-
ing very well. But now most of us avoid great offences ;
or else he is tired of telling us about them, and he does
not tell us what to do enough. I suppose it is hard
to bring regular studio drawing to the help of us poor
sketchers ; but really I do not think he has seen much
scenery. And we wrote to young Mr. Verditer, and he

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said he had to paint, and did'nt care for talking about
it ; and Mr. Martel told us we had better read his
books, which we do, I am sure. Then at last, when I
was in despair, I was introduced to your Oxford Pro-
fessor, and asked him whom I could ask, and he said
you, and that you were to write to him about it, and to
be good to us. Now do : and think it well over, and
make us some rules for our work. We really do want
to get on and to do right ; you know the only woman's
rights I ever cared for (except being courted and mar-
ried) were that my girls and I might learn something as
men learn it, out and out. And I think that the higher
the amateur clubs can get in their work, the more likely
people are to ask for good subjects and spirited things
in exhibitions, — which will be good for you. This is
quite a business letter, so I will only send all our love,
and say that they have got two hundred and fifty brace
of partridges already, strictly over dogs ; that they are
all very good-tempered and nice when awake, which,
happily, they seldom are, except at meals ; that all the
boys and girls are well, and that John has shot very
f airly, and hopes to reduce himself to thirteen stone by
hard labour. Do write soon and tell us something ; we
will give you £30 a year.

Ever your old cousin,

Flora Lattermath.

P.S. Margaret Langdale is here, and is one of us ; she
really looks very grand, and works very hard.

Whereto, after due consideration and correspondence,
Charley made answer thus : —

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Hellifield Tarn,
Sept. 20.

My Dear Florence (long and respectful for Flora, I
presume),

This is to be a business letter, of course ; so
accept my assurance that we are all right, and have got a
thousand brace by this time, driven grouse. Also re-
member me faithfully to Margaret, whom I put in my
first sentence, probably for the same reason that you
put her in your P.S. I have no doubt she will derive
material advantage from pursuing her studies with me.
Well, I have written to the Professor ; and he says I am
to criticise you, if you will abide by certain additional
rules, generally speaking. (He says, moreover, if you
will not, not.) By criticising, I mean telling you what
you ought not to have done in the sketches before me,
and also what you ought to do to them. This last, you
know, will require more or less illustration in my own
hand, so that you will give a fair amount of trouble
for your money. Your usual rules about being anony-
mous numbers, and of one drawing a month, or fine,
are good ; but I want a number of others, all in the
way of discipline ; and, in fact, I can't undertake without
them. If you think you really are going to improve
public taste, — which I am sure seems possible, and you
can't by any effort or chance make it worse, — you must
really learn to draw above the popular standard.

Now do you be good too, and remember when you
were little, — in your own eyes. These are my rules,
whereby I mean to stick.

1. Drawings sent me for criticism shall be landscape
only, unless I write to anybody permitting and request-

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ing him or her to do figure subject. By this last, I mean
any subject where the chief interest depends on the
attitude or expression of figures, or on skill or labour
bestowed on them. I allow interiors, but consider that
they ought to • have for their motives either study of
light and shade combined with perspective, or still life ;
and that figures should be introduced unsentimentally,
and only as objects reflecting light. I object to Mother
being Bad (especially in drawing), and utterly protest
against Helping Mother, and all illustration of the
domestic affections or rural virtues ; still more against
the corresponding vices.

2. This is not to prevent anybody's introducing small
figures wherever force, or incident, or distance, or local
colour is wanted ; or wherever accidental colour is noticed
or wanted in a landscape sketch, as a pink and white
striped skirt in a hay-field, or a red coat on a winter's
evening. (I'm so glad you go on wearing and distribut-
ing scarlet cloaks ; give my love to old Polly at the West
Lodge, and say as sure as ever I come to Hawkstone I'll
take her head off.) For the kind and use of figures I
mean, see the Liber Studiorum.

3. There may be three subjects a month as usual, but
I must dictate one of them, and that must be done
somehow by everybody. I never scold, and always
praise where I can ; and after the first time or two, I
will give you pretty things to do.

4. Except by special license, everything is to be done
on white paper, not too rough : unless where a single
object or small group is done in the centre of a sheet
by way of study, the white paper should be covered into
the corners. I wish you would all use hot-pressed
paper, or Bristol-board, invariably1.

1 There is a fine-grained paper of Whatman's, which seems to

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

5. Without prejudice to old members of the club, new
ones ought either to produce tolerable drawings of their
own, or do one for qualification ; or undertake on honour
to go through a certain course of practice, till I pass
them into full membership. Honorary, or inactive, or
literary members you may have, but they are not my
business. I will look at photographs, but can't promise
to criticise them.

6. Last and irrevocable. Every active member of the
club is to send me, by any date within this year, a
drawing of a white jam-pot on white paper, in stippled
chalk, or in sepia, or pencil shading, or pencil washed
with water-colours (sepia or gray), which last I recom-
mend. I will give a small landscape sketch of my own
to the best drawing ; and I had rather not criticise any-
body who does not send me one. To be done as a
study, the whole paper need not be covered. The Per-
fessor has seen these stipulations, and approves ; and any
backslider or blasphemer may expect to be swallowed
whole, with some abruptness. Respect this accordingly,
my dear Flora ; and whatever you do, don't let me guess
which are May's works. The money will do. Love to
John and the creatures.

Ever yours, affectionately,

C. C.

Letter LIL.
My Dear Charley :

At last they all seem good and submissive, on
the whole, and our first portfolio of jam-pots will be duly
forwarded to you in November. But oh, I do wish you
and the P. knew what a life I shall have, meanwhile,

unite the advantages of roughness and smoothness, by the regularity
of its unevenness.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

with all the club. Do send a decisive allocution about
the drawings, answering these questions from various
members. (The men are worse than the girls.)

1. May they group anything with the White Wessel,
as they call it ?

2. May they substitute Jamaica-ginger-pots ?

3. Or brown glazed pickle-jars with reflections ?

4. Or any sort of red pottery ?

5. Or old china in any form ?

6. Or use gray paper and Chinese white ?

Don't be too hard.

Affectionately yours,

P.S. — As if you wouldn't know ! What hypocrites some
people are !

Letter IV.

My Dear Flora :

No, to all the questions. Do it in sepia or pencil
as fine as you can ; the gooseberry vessel of our child-
hood, and nothing but it. / have done you a nice prize,
though I say it.

Affectionately yours,

C. C.

P. S. — I don't know her's from Adam's.

Letter V.

Baker Street,
October 1.

My Dear Flora:

I have received twenty-six jam-pots in your
portfolio. I quite agree that the quarter-sheet should be
your largest size, and the eighth your smallest. Those
who use the latter henceforth ought to do so as students

C 2

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of Turner, and to them, for that purpose, I concede gray
paper. But it is no use drawing at that small size
except under his guidance ; and I hardly know how you
can get it, without visiting Oxford, Cambridge, or South
Kensington. If you have any very patient, keen and
skilful water-colourist among you, and you seem to have
one or two, it would be a great thing to get her or him to
go to Oxford for a month and copy, let us say, Combe
Martin, and the Coteaux des Mauves in the Gallery
there, under Mac-Diarmid and the Professor. No pains
should be spared, for the object will be to produce such
fac-similes, touch for touch, as shall be fit to be circulated
and used by the club as copies. They should be signed
by Mac, if they can be got up to that point, and the
club should make the artist some acknowledgment in
proportion to the severe labour involved.

But now to these drawings. Everybody has done her
best I really think. One or two are confused and
messed a little ; some are washed and sponged and
rubbed. I wanted all to be done with repeated washes
or patches laid on strictly in planned form, leaving the
edges in the first instance, and stippling and hatching
them into mass afterwards. There is one way to make
a study in light and shade : — to mark the highest lights
and leave them blank, then to run the faintest coat of
shade over everything else ; then the next coat, and so
on seriatim. It is rather curious that three of these
studies, which I really think are the three best, represent
very fairly the three pillars given in ' Modern Painters '
as examples of Rembrandt's, Turner's, and Veronese's
systems of chiaroscuro. I wish you would all read that
chapter (vol. iv, part v, chap, iii, p. 34) very carefully ;
but for those who regret that they can't take the trouble,
I will send my own abstract of it, and here it is.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

I'll trouble any member of the club, or of society, to tell
me what ' white ' means in a picture ? It expresses either
light, or local colour; and in your drawing you have only
the paper-whiteness to stand for both. And paper is
not very white. You all thought me very brutal because
I would not let you use tinted paper ; I would not,
because white paper, the very whitest, is tinted, or
darkened enough already. Consider, the sheet on which
a picture is painted is an opaque white surface, upright,
in side-light and out of sunshine. Pictures are always
supposed to be seen under those circumstances, you
know ; and if you bring a sheet of white paper close to
a window, side on, and hold it vertically out of sunshine,
you will have as white a surface as you possibly can
have over any part of your picture. Now, hold that
sheet so that half shall cut against the window-sill or
wall, and half against the sky. Then it is white against
the wall, and ever so dark against the blue sky ; ever so
much darker against the unlighted white clouds ; and
utterly black or blank against their bright parts which
are full of light. For the paper possesses opaque white-
ness, as of chalk ; the clouds possess brightness, as of
white fire. Now just consider, when you do a sunshiny
landscape, the whitest light you can get on your paper
is really darker than the darkest part of the clouds you
want to put in your picture ; and also, than the distance
of your picture, if you have a five or six mile distance
in it. Now, on comparing white paper in a room,
looked at as a picture is looked at, with a jam-pot
looked at as a copy, you see, at all events, one is as white
as the other, or very nearly so, so that the jam-pot is
easier than the landscape in the sense of being possible,
while the landscape, strictly speaking, is not. And it is
highly expedient for me to judge of all your work by

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giving examples quite within your powers. I know the
greatest power is shown by contending with the greatest
difficulties ; but if you all possessed that, why you know
you would be a-improving of me, and not I you.

Now, in this jam-pot, a very good one, the artist, whom
I must call No. I, has hit on, or been taught to follow,
Rembrandt's, or Leonardo's system. And that system
is very well adapted for drawing a simple study like this.
No. i sees that her crockery has a small, high light ; that
high light is just the tint of her paper; therefore, all the
rest of her white wessel has to be darkened and made
gray to relieve, and so express the brightness of that
high light. For it is glazed, and has caught the light,
and all opaque local whiteness yields to a flash. And
now you know what a flash, a glint, a reflection on
armour, embroidery, or glass, is to Rembrandt ; and you
know how valuable he makes it. And this flash on the
white glaze gives this drawing value, as a bit of reality :
the artist is not wrong in darkening the whole paper for
its sake ; but the whole local colour is sacrificed.

But now, is this well-drawn and rounded cylinder, with
only one touch of real absolute white upon it, and the
rest all gray, and a very black shadow, and a rather
black dark side, — is it as like a white jam-pot as No. 2,
which is so much less black? I should say not. It is
rather rounder, and so has more form. But the eye feels
that if it was a part of a picture, it would not look so
like what it is as No. 2, because that not only possesses
a fair amount of roundness, but is, beyond all dispute,
white in colour, while No. I has only one white flash on
it. No. 2 economises the darkness for the sake of colour.
No. I lays on the shade for the sake of form. No. I
loses some of his form in darkness ; the other loses form
in light, but gains far more in colour. A landscape with

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

distance would be hopelessly heavy and dark in all its
near objects on the first principle ; the other is Turner's ;
and he (as I observe No. 2 has done) makes his extreme
shadow as black as he can ; his lightest surface tint a
very thin, local colour, approaching white, and reserves
white itself for brightness, or a single flash of actual
light in some principal place in his picture. So I bracket
these two together as best, and must send a sketch to
each of the artists ; only I beg No. 1 to copy No. 2's
work, and vice versa. Each will then fully understand
all this tirade.

The whole club may do a brown pickle-jar now, on
white, as before. No flash of light allowed on it ; con-
sequently, no pure white anywhere on it ; sepia only ;
and carry a pale tint over all to begin with ; then lay on
the shadows. Choose your own subject for the other
drawing, but make it as simple a thing as you can per-
suade yourselves to do.

And don't use Chinese white in these studies. I
should say, do not use it at all on white paper ; never,
certainly, till a work is nearly done ; and never till you
clearly see your way to an effect with it, which you could
not possibly produce without it. But do justice to your
own subject in your own way this time. I should like
in the first portfolio to see everybody's taste and fancy,
and so I give leave for tinted paper, any. subject, and
body colour in all forms, on this occasion only.

[I give you notice of the following subject, which I
wish the club would do very carefully this autumn ; I
have tried the colours, and they come very prettily. A
thrush1, with yellow feet, and yellow about his bill, pick-
ing coral-red berries in a dark yew ; purple branches,

Or blackbird.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

and masses of heavy green, small interval of blue sky
through, all quite near the eye.]

Good-bye, my dear Flora, and tell the club I really
think very highly of the work. I have numbered the
six best drawings, besides the prizes.

Ever yours,

C. C.

I can come after Christmas, if you like, and will send
old Warhawk, whom M. knows. I am only a one-horse
man ; but I dare say John will have something for me to
ride ; Catapult, for choice, if t'ard mare is still going.
But I am very busy now on a big desert subject, which
Sternchase approves ; and a canter in the Park before
breakfast is all I have time for.

CHAPTER II.

Letter VI. C. C. to F. L,

Tombuie, Gairloch, Ross-shire,
October, 186-.

My Dear Flora :

I suppose that you and your club will not
do very much drawing in the open air till next
spring. I have always thought the sketching season, for
students of landscape, like the one crack lesson of the
week in a school, in drawing or music ; when the great
master whom everybody really believes in, comes and
takes every one's work in hand. I dare say you may
have found in music, that one lesson of Benedict did
your piano-hands more good than several weeks' practice
under somebody you were not afraid of. It did so, of
course ; because all the practice of those weeks was
really done in faith and terror about Benedict ; and that
made you really prepare for your lesson. I want you
all to do the same, till green leaves come again. Sketch-
ing— what we call sketching — is taking lessons of Nature.
As to the many meanings of the word ' sketch,' we '11 talk
of that another time. Old Ripon's book is generally
supposed to give a neat account of them. I have often
talked it over with him, and can tell you what will hold
good. But now, you must make up your minds (as far

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

as I am concerned with what you do) to draw indoors
in winter, as you would read music and take piano
exercise, with a view to the great Teacher's instructions
in spring. Which things are an allegory ; but that 's not
my business just now.

Those who are most advanced among you will do
well to choose some favourite simple subject, with as
little in it as possible, and with not more than two pre-
vailing colours, and paint it as strongly and thickly as
possible in oils ; or you may use egg or some of the
water-colour media in foreground, and white with the dis-
tance colours. In fact, if you paint with a transparent
medium in front and body-colour farther off", you pass
out of pure water-painting into distemper-painting ; and
this is what all the English water-colour school are doing.
It enables you to use the red sable brush, with all its ad-
vantages over the rough hog- hair tool ; and yet you have
much of the additional power and depth of oils. But I

only commend this to numbers ■ . For the rest, this

is what I want them to do till next spring, chiefly to
wit : —

First, your perspective is shaky all round, except the
above-mentioned numbers ; and there are two things you
can all do to improve it. Of course you ought to get the
Professor's little book1 on the subject, and work through
it ; and of course you all regret not to have time. But
get a piece — say six inches square — of window-glass, and
a fine brush, and mix a little red up with white. Then
hold up your glass against a box, or an open book, a
house, trees and small landscape, and a succession of
such subjects or objects, and accustom yourself to trace
the main lines of each subject on the glass, with the

1 ' Elements of Perspective/ by John Ruskin.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

point of the brush and body-colour. Of course the
nearer you hold it to your eye, the larger space it will
cover. Then copy said lines carefully on paper. That
will be the true perspective of the subjects. Do this for
a short time, — once a day for a while, — and your per-
spective will not be far wrong in your club work.

That 's one thing. Then set a square block on a table
before you, six feet off, and make its nearest edge parallel
with the edge of the table : sit with the block a little to
your left ; then you can see its right side, and its top

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

foreshortened. Hold your drawing-paper perpendicular
for a moment, covering the object as the glass did ; then
draw its nearest face (see the left of diagram) quite
flat, in as good proportion as you can judge ; that 's
the front of your block which faces you, — the 'eleva-
tion ' they call it. But you can also see its top and
right side. Therefore draw its top and fit that on to
the front ; and then draw its side and fit that on to
the top and front ; and that is drawing your block in
perspective. Draw it on and through the glass, and you
will see that its lines converge in just the same way.
Then produce or lengthen the sides of your block and
the lines of its top with a ruler : they will meet some-
where ; the pairs of lines will run into one. The point
where they do that is their vanishing point, and all
practical perspective consists in getting lines to their
right vanishing points. (See diagram at C and H.) If
you will draw an open work-box, with a lid hanging
back, and its corner turned towards you, — first by your
eye, then through the glass, — you will have examples
of perspective lines in all sorts of directions, with the
vanishing points where they run into each other. The
theory of the thing you can get from lots of books ; but
this is the best practice for you.

Then you will ask : How am I to judge the relative
length of lines? How much longer is a front line to
be on my paper than a perspective line of equal
length ? This leads to the very foundation of all
sketching ; that is, the habit of accurate measuring
by the thumb-nail on your pencil. Sit upright and
stretch out your arm at full length, holding your pencil
perpendicularly between your fingers, two on each side
and the thumb uppermost. That gives you an upright
ruler or standard ; and on that you can measure com-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

parative lengths of objects, by sliding your thumb-nail
up and down : and it will do just as well horizontally.
You must practise this ; for drawing is all measuring :
and all measuring of relative lengths may be done most
correctly in this way. For instance, to draw a statue by
heads, you take the perpendicular height from crown to
chin, as your unit of length, and measure it off thus on
the body, — say about seven and one half heads long, as
we say ; or, if the head is not convenient to measure by,
you may take the waist horizontally, — about five and
three-fourths to the whole stature.

Try it on your block. I have one before me six inches
square, two thick, and to the left of my eye. Sitting
over it at the table, I can see its thickness and the whole
upper surface ; but, when I hold up my pencil, I find
that the whole six inches of retiring surface in the
drawing must not be so broad as the two inches of
perpendicular thickness facing me. That is what fore-
shortening means ; and, the lower your eye is, the
more you will have to foreshorten, for the less of the
surface at top will you see. But always keep in mind
that you must not look on this surface as receding
space, which it is, but as all in the same plane as the
front elevation or near face ; for so it will be in your
picture.

If you will only practise measuring heights and dis-
tances with thumb and pencil, whenever you sketch, and
make good use of the square of common clear glass, I
will answer for your landscape perspective not being far
wrong \ ' And, when spring comes round, you must draw
a few leaves and sprays as you see them : you will be

1 The glass had better be held like the pencil, or fixed at arm's
length from the eye. The distance is easily ascertained ; and a slight

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

surprised to find how one really sees leaves edge on and
foreshortened. All this is very dull ; but it is a great
thing to get some common ready rule of thumb about
perspective ; and, do you know, you most of you need
one ?

The art schools in London have a small model of a
flight of steps, which is, I think, the best example you can
have. You can make one by piling up a heap of books
of the same size. When you see and show in your
drawing, not only that the walls on each side the steps
converge towards the top, but that the outlines of the
steps converge, then you see like a draughtsman. I
hope this may be my stupidest letter ; but please con-
sider the nature of the subject, and it 's all for your good.
What's worse, I Ve not done yet.

If I wrote about composition, you naturally wouldn't
read it. I had rather you would draw from Nature, and
pick composition up as you go on. But the sense of
perspective has a great deal to do with composition.
For instance, one of the first things a man looks for in a
picture, especially a landscape, is a way into it, — some-
thing to destroy the impression of flat surface. It is
contrived in many ways. There is always a road,
and people on it at different distances ; or a flock of
sheep ; or a foreshortened figure right in front, pointing
or squaring his elbows ; or a river serpentining into
distance ; or several things converging ; — anything to
lead the eye in among the objects on the canvas.
That is all perspective. Turner uses tree trunks very
artfully, crossing and diminishing them, one behind

frame might be added, for the convenience of setting the glass up
before the student, who will find it easy enough to trace lines on it
with a long-handled fine brush and colour.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

another, to show a way through a wood. But the
most curious thing is the peculiar melancholy of the
perspective curves of a quiet river. They seem to lead
the eye away into distance with a feeling of infinity, and
give such an impression of the wandering unreturning
flow of the stream. You must have noticed it, parti-
cularly in the evening or morning.

All this is about linear perspective, obtainable by
fair drawing. Aerial perspective is really a matter of
colour ; though mistiness and obscurity may be had in
all manner of ways. And now there are a few things
I want you all to consider about water-colours.

All the colours in the box are either transparent or
opaque, — at least the semi-opaques are generally used
thinly, and made transparent. Opaque, solid, and body
colour all mean the same thing. Chinese white, or any
tint well mixed with it, is solid : you can't see through
it more than through a plate of metal ; and it does
not grow whiter when you put on another coat of the
same. It shines for itself, as colour, and has a fixed place
in the scale of light and dark ; and if you put it over
another colour, it does not modify it, but conceals it.
Now gamboge or rose madder are transparent. If you
put or two coats of either, they are darker than if you
put on one ; and, if they be carried over other hues,
they change them, but do not hide them ; as, gamboge
over blue turns it into green, and does not substitute
yellow, as thick chrome would do.

Now, as students, you must all use transparent colour,
or the semi-opaques as if they were transparent. As
with the jam-pot, so with everything else : you work
from light to dark ; that is to say, from the white paper
to violet-carmine, or lamp-black. You get light by adding
shadow, and form by definition in shadow. Before your

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picture is begun, it is all high light — white paper ; and
you paint in coloured shadow, or rather your palest and
brightest hues first ; and their (also coloured) shadows
afterwards, in shar'p, defining form. Having an oak-
branch in spring to paint, I should first paint in emerald
green all over its outline form. With a bank of heather,
I should put on rose madder with a little blue nearly all
over, and work the greens, etc., into that, — lighter and
purer first, deeper and browner afterwards. It is quite
difficult enough, as I said, to go on this way; because,
even here, you have to consider which of the hues is
lighter in tint1 and which darker: for example, you
have to judge whether the heather flowers are lighter
than the green heather tops, and so on. [The only
way to calculate this by the eye is to look at the two
objects with half-closed lids. There is a point of dim-
ness at which the lighter tint is recognisable with
certainty.] To translate hue into tint, or colour into
grammatical light and shade, is hard enough. But
you must do it, or you lose so much form : and you
should only think, in drawing from Nature, how you
are to get the forms right by painting on right-coloured
shadows. The idea is, in water-colour, to get the correct
outlines, by painting coloured shade all round them,
and complete them by painting coloured shade into
them correctly. Whatever you have to colour, take
these questions in succession, and answer them in your
work : —

i. What hue, and how dark, is the colour of my highest
light, — the nearest tint to white in all my subject ?
(Absolute white is very rare.)

1 ' Tint ' means pitch of shade, lighter or darker ; ' hue ' variety of
colour.

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2. What hue, and how dark, is the tint of the next
darkest shadow ; and what kind of shape has it on the
object : in other words, hue, tint, and form of second
degree of shade?

Then third, fourth, and all of them, — the lighter first,

O T 2 3 4

Fig. 2.

the darker after. Take a figure like this : — you want to
paint it in water-colour with those degrees of shade-
Well, it is better to begin with tint No. I, the lightest.
Carry I all over spaces 2, 3, and 4, and let it dry. Then
carry 2 over 3 and 4, and so on, carefully drying be-
tween each. Then you will have all your edges quite
sharp and clear, which is the soul of water-colour. If
you had begun with the darkest, 4, it would have run
more or less into the others ; at all events, the out-
lines would have been muddy. That is the principle
of water-colour, from light to dark.

I suppose you are all pressed for time. That is
what every body says. The inference is, that you ex-
pect to learn to paint in no time ; and you can't do it.
And mind, there is no such thing as amateur work, and
allowance for amateurs. I should rather think I was an
amateur or lover of painting ; I've given all I had to
give to it for fifteen years. And I should say that you
were professionals, or had made a profession of intending
to learn to draw things right. But work is right or
wrong ; and, in so far as it is wrong, it is nothing,
except for the caution you learn by it. Now if you

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look at the different patches in the second diagram,
you will see how they are done, — in pen and ink, with
crossed lines, and with an even hand. Now any of you
in any spare five minutes (and I've always found that
time really runs away from one in grains of about that
size) can draw something like that, and practise shading
by even lines, first like those at I, then i crossed with
other lines diagonisingly, as old Jagger, our keeper, says.
Practise that when you can, with anything you like,
on anything you like, — pen and ink, HB pencil, chalk,
or, best of all, a fine brush and sepia ; the smoother
the paper, the better. It is workman's work ; engravers
shade things so. Of course you will do the light
parts, as your pen gets empty. When you can do
steady lines, try to get gradation in pen and ink, so
as to pass imperceptibly from light to dark with as
many degrees of shade as possible. To do this you
must use little dots, which painters call stippling, in
between your lines and everywhere ; and in working at
speed — and you ought not to be too slow — you will
have to scratch out a little with a penknife at last.
You may use a steel crow-quill, or a broad driveable
steel pen. The whole secret is filling up the little
white interstices between the crossed lines. Of course
it is tiresome at first ; but you need not do it for long
at a time ; and your eyes will grow nicer every day (if
that be possible for ladies' eyes). You may see how
to do it from the diagram, and I shall ask you here-
after to practise the crossed lines on a larger scale, so
as to gain freedom of hand.

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Here you have the first two figures from 'Elements
of Drawing ;' do the flat shade b first, beginning as at a,

Fig. 3,

then the gradated exercise c from light to dark. Practise
both in all ways, that is to say, in pencil, in sepia, and
in chalk on a large free scale, and of all sizes, and work,
above all things, for skill in cross-hatching lines evenly
into a perfectly flat surface.

And, do you know, some of you had much better
spend your time in this way than do the sort of drawings
I have just received from subjects of your own choosing.
As a teacher, one is always told that by making people
do simpler and simpler work, one will get them down at
last to something they can do right. Well, it may be, if
they care for drawing for its own sake. But many of
you seem to think of it only as a vehicle of sentiment,
and also that it does not matter how ungrammatically
sentiment is expressed. You have all read the Profes-
sor's sentence (Modern Painters, vol. i. pp. 9, 10) about
the early painters ; and think that because you have
a pretty thought in your heads, you are as good as
Cimabue. You forget that there is a whole renaissance
of study and discovery and correct work between you,
and that what is excusable and pathetic in a person
who has to teach himself is just the contrary in a

D 1

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lady who won't take pains. Merely from want of will
and methodical practice, some of the numbers seem
not to know what right is. I set — — simpler things
to do ; and they have done them worse. All the
effort and attention are gone : they seem not to be
able to get on without excitement ; whereas the
essence of all practical art is self-possession. When
inclined to gush, try to express your emotions on the
piano. If you were to play in the style of some of these
drawings, your music-master would flee howling into the
wilderness. Or write earnest poetry in shocking bad
grammar ; won't the effect border on the grotesque ?
Here's a specimen drawing, — a self-chosen subject from
Goethe, — Mignon doing something; a little figure out
of drawing, with immense eyes which are not a pair,
supported by two left legs and feet without any phalanges
(ask John what that word means), in a room out of per-
spective, and moving about like Wordsworth in a world
of background not realised. It 's all sponged and rubbed
and smudged and grimed ; in fact, it is a mess. If this
sort of thing is sent me any more —

0 Lady Flora, hear me speak,

— I mean exactly what I say, —

1 shall unquestionably seek

A large addition to my pay.

Ever yours, and May's, affectionately,
C. C.

P. S. Remember me to May very particularly, and
tell her I want to draw her in several capacities. We
have been felling the deer on the Cairn-breac ; and I got
a big Royal. Rather a rough finish with him : he wasn't

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so dead as he ought to have been ; and, when he felt
Duncan's knife, he rose up and jammed Duncan against
a rock. He happily clung on to the horns with all his
might ; and I threw my jacket over the beast's head,
and struck him just right with the skean-dhu at the
root of the neck. Duncan just said, 'Ye're a maan
to hoont with ; ' and I think the gillies are keener
with me now.

CHAPTER III.

Flora. Well, May, you have seen a great deal for
twenty-three, — almost everything you've any business
to have seen, except —

May. Except what, Floy, — a lover ?

F. Yes ; for you never will look at anybody in that
light.

M. What sort of light, dear — couleur dn rose, like
toilet curtains?

F. Yes ; most girls would look more kindly at men.
At least, you always were kind enough to everybody ;
but you do take them so coolly.

M. Oughtn't somebody to come, and make me look
the right sort of way at him ? I really think I should
learn very soon, if I got the right master. You're
thinking of Charles, I suppose. Well, so do I, some-
times,—often, if you please. But he is like all the
others ; he does not think quite enough about it. His
life is all pictures ; and I am only one of his foreground
figures. I should like a canvas all to myself. It is men
who take us so coolly. At all events, they all pretend
not to care ; and we must pretend, too.

F. Well, I wish you'd look at him once as I've seen
him look at you.

M. Would he see it, too, do you think? I never did.

This pithy dialogue took place over afternoon tea at
Hawkstone. The ladies had ridden to a near meet of

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hounds ; but a short run had ended without a kill, and
heavy autumn rain had sent them home alone. They
were old friends and dear, with perfect confidence in
each other (it is really possible in the country). Yet
this was the first time Flora had ever talked to Margaret
either about men or any man. She had plunged at the
subject with ready good-will, feeling or making her
opportunity with dark May, whom she liked all the
better because her own decisive spirit could not alto-
gether rule her friend's meditative indolence. I have
had to make their conversation very staccato ; but inter-
esting talks often are, as moments of profound confidence
are, but moments, between the best friends ; and they
are apt to flash or snap questions and answers at each
other as in a French novel. This pair liked, but did not
quite comprehend each other. A curious reserve and
languor, the more unintelligible to others because she
obviously couldn't understand it herself, was one of Miss
Langdale's most provoking attributes. People were
half afraid of her, she was so tall and grand, and had
more in her than met the eye ; and she was tender
enough to be vexed about it, more with herself than
others. An immense soft-heartedness and pity was one
of her qualities ; and early experience had taught her
to be very silent about it ; so people thought her a
coldish, rather benevolent young lady of business, as
Flora said, 'till they knew her form.'

I have read several square yards of various description
by eminent hands, in hopes of finding one, or rather two
portrait sketches for Florence and May as they sat in
the former's room — sanctum or boudoir it could not be
called, — because she let anybody into it who was not
actually smoking, and who ' respected the threshold in
the matter of boots. For furniture and decoration; see

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novels, passim. The ladies are an artistic subject, and
will do very well for a book on colour and form.

They say beauty is leaving the old houses in
England, and going to the timocracy or democracy.
Perhaps so. Neither of these latter were ever a very
plain generation ; and the standard is high, from John
o' Groat's to San Francisco. But if you see a muster of
the North Country at York, you won't think altogether
ill of the looks which go with ancient names. And
this pair had been pronounced ' crackers ' by highly
competent judges at many hunt balls in the glad old
city. They were not exactly dark and fair : for both
were dark-eyed : but Flora rejoiced in black-brown
locks, and that high unchanging colour which depends
not on thickness but extreme fineness of skin. May
was purple-haired and rather pale, with an occasional
brunette blush of the true vermilion tint, which only
dark cheeks wear, and they not always. They were
cousins ; and the blood and form of the same ancestress
of yet unforgotten beauty were in both. They were
like and unlike : both had keen, aquiline beaks, and soft,
half-humorous faces ; both pairs of eyes were sharp or
tender as you took them ; both had tall, rounded figures,
with the same look of power in repose ; both liked black
and rose, or ivy green and dark brown. One always
managed the other in society ; the other always in-
fluenced the one in serious matters. They could hardly
have done without each other ; and Flora's great object
in life, she said, till her girls were out (their present ages
were two and four), was to get somebody for May whom
she liked herself. This was both a grave home matter
and a matter of society ; and it was not easy to see
whose taste of the two would be consulted in the end.
May was an orphan, — a very independent one in fortune

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and all other matters. She had a faint remembrance
of many kisses from her father, swarthy and splendid,
in red uniform and epaulets, before he went away so
many years ago ; also of a dreadful day not long after,
when a letter came that mamma never read to the end.
It brought news that papa had died in his saddle,
among mutinous Sowars, making many follow on the
way he went. Then she had grown up to bring back
something of happiness to the sad mother whose whole
life was in her, and had learned to care for little else.
Lady Langdale had never gone into the world after
her husband's death. As she said herself, half of her
had died that day ; but enough was left to have May
well drilled in many things not often known to ladies
of her age. The girl waxed strong in shade. In the
presence of a great praying, uncomplaining grief, she
learned endless patience, and seemed to grow easily
into the experience of a regular , nurse, in the care of
her mother's strong mind and broken frame. Not that
the sufferer was exigeante or selfish : her daughter was
her only hope in the world ; and all her remaining
powers went to make the most of her. So May did
not want for acquirement. She early found out, that
nothing did mamma so much good as her getting on
with lessons. So with steady home-work, travel, and
good instruction in Rome and Dresden, she had been
fairly grounded in what we call education. I take that
to consist, for man or woman, in learning the Christian
faith, — one's mother-tongue undefiled, a quantum of
mathematics, a little Latin, two modern languages be-
sides one's own, an art, and a craft. He or she who is
grounded in these things will not be helpless ; and May
was supremely helpful by the time she was twenty.
She would work for people ; she comforted people ; she

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had fits of humour and said things which made every-
body laugh ; she did so herself, — rather loud, I fear,
sometimes ; ' with a great deep sound like a man,' as
Flora complained. Both were in square-cut black velvet
gowns, with maize ribbons, and heavy gold ornaments
of an old Holbein design which May had contrived
with a drunken genius of a working goldsmith, whose
wife she had nursed. And they sat in a deep olive-
greenish room (if you must have something about it,
as a background for them), with dark old oak, some
black and dead gold, and blue and white china, and no
other colour ; some good and highly-finished water-
colours on the walls ; comfortable chairs and ottomans ;
a rack near the door of feminine whips, umbrellas, spuds,
garden shears ; a dainty description of bill-hook, and
something very like a. salmon-rod. Books ad libitum^
a good piano, and a space before the fire for the chil-
dren, filled up the large low room ; and Sir John had
just such another on the other side of the great door
of Hawkstone Holt, — a big house, in a big park, which
is all I have to say of it now.

The blue and white tea-service was in full action
during the conversation held above ; and the pair were
hungry : so that (except an odious comparison on
Flora's part of herself and friend to Sarah Gamp and
Elizabeth Prig), little else was said before the desired
arrival of the evening boy and letter-bag. And then
they got Cawthorne's letter just written, and read it,
sitting close to each other, on a broad ottoman by the
fire, with one great waxlight in a standing candle-table,
and all sorts of flashing reflections on their eyes and
hair and necks and silk, and all over the room. To-
wards the end, Flora invoked her Goodness ; and May
laughed her great contralto laugh.

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'Will they stand this sort of lecture, do you think?'
she said.

' Oh ! they must ; and it's fair enough. Rather hard
on poor Susy Milton : but she adores you ; and you
can smooth her over to-night.' She stays here over to-
morrow, and ought to be here now.'

Horses, bell,, and arrival of a little person in a habit.

The rest is too dreadful.

Letter VII. F. L. to C. C.

Oct. — , rS6-

My Dear Charley :

You are more formidable than I thought ; and
probably I ought to know, as we have certainly quar-
relled in our time. But really, now, —

' Oh, hold up your hands, Lord Charley, she said ;
For your strokes they are wondrous sore ! '

You are like all critics, gifted with an extraordinary
taste for tormenting those who feel it most ; and poor
little Miss Milton, who is too eager and aspiring, I
know, but very simple, shed tears extensively under
the lash about that unlucky picture of Mignon. She
came in on May and myself just as we were reading
your letter ; and we thought it better to break it to her.
She took it and read it, and said something about not
having- known it was so bad, and then quietly began to
cry. But old May took her in her great arms, and
made her sit in her lap, habit, spur, splashes, and all,
and put their cheeks together, and said nothing ; and
her immense comfortable laziness quite soothed the
little party in no time. She only wants to do what's
right, she says, and quite insists on your remarks going

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round (I suppose by your putting them on a separate
leaf, you meant to leave me the choice of suppression,
after I had had the fun ; by all means be as discreet on
all other occasions). I think the perspective instruc-
tions do make the subject clearer in a practical way :
the pen-and-ink lessons will certainly make us all very
slow and absent over our letters. But at all events
they will be a great help to those who really mean to
take pains, and have enough enthusiasm to attain to
method, — quite an oracular sentence, isn't it ? I am
delighted at having said something like the Professor.
Tell us more about your deer-stalking. What do you
mean about the Royal ? What is a Royal ? A fabulous
animal like a king's arms? And what is striking him
all right at the root of the neck ? Did it hurt him ? and
if so, how should you like it yourself? And where do
you expect to go to, generally speaking?

Yours, as you behave yourself,

Letter VIII. In the same envelope.

My Dear Charles :

Flora is in a great hurry with her guests ; and
I am glad she has asked me to write to you about an
idea of Ellen Gatacre's. She reads a great deal, you
know, and has a high idea of your learning, as well as
your execution ; and she says you write well. I am sure
she is right, as far as invective goes. But she wants you
to write us a nice long letter about the Cinque Cento, or
the Renaissance, and to give us, if you can, a clear notion
of what the words mean ; or rather to pick out their various
uses, and tell us what all the people mean who write

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about the words. It seems to me as if you would have
to write quite a book on it, if you once begin ; but you
might do it bit by bit, in a series of letters. All of us,
I think, make notes of things you tell us; and most of
us would gain a good deal by this, if it did not take up
too much of your time. There is so much quarrelling
about the religious painters and the naturalists ; and one
set of people talk about the Renaissance being an anti-
religious movement, as if they thought atheism the main
object of art ; and others seem to think Masaccio quite
wicked, because he is not like Perugino ; and then they
say art and criticism have no object but pleasure. I'm
sure I don't think so ; for I like drawing very much :
and I have generally found pleasure rather disagreeable,
at least, in town. We all want you to write us some-
thing on this subject ; and I want you further to do
something to comfort Susan Milton, who is in a rather
desponding way about her drawing. She has never
been taught on any system, and seems to have quite a
passionate delight in beautiful things, with a blind sort
of eagerness to imitate them, which certainly brings her
to grief occasionally. She says, till she saw your letters,
nobody had ever told her what to do, and promises
obedience henceforth. Could you write her a little note
through Flora?

Please don't be too rash deer-stalking : I suppose that
sort of thing does not often happen ; but Mr. Hobbes
has written quite a sensational account of Duncan's and
your danger, strength, and valour ; and some of us are
rather frightened. He is such a cool, plucky person
himself, that one thinks more of what he says. It must
be such dreadfully wet, cold work, too ; one of the ladies
here said she ' supposed deer-stalkers always wore go-
loshes.' Suggest the idea to old 'Tuncan,' whom I

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remember well at Glen Monar, and remember me kindly
to him. We were out yesterday with the Gorsehampton-
shire, and had a nice little run, keeping a safe place
in the third flight. Old Billy Moody showed us our
way beautifully ; and. Flora and I quite raced ; she
teases me about being a champion of heavy weights.
Mariquita galloped and jumped beautifully, and took
better care of me than I could of her. Jagger is ill at
Red Scaurs ; and two or three of your collier friends
want to see you. Do you know, with a little persuasion
from you, Mr. Ripon thinks he could get them to
sing in the choir ? Bolton must be lovely now : we are
going to have an expedition there before leaves are
quite gone. Can you write me some verses, — not about
myself in particular, anybody will do ? Good-bye ; the
children rather want me to play to them.

Ever your affectionate cousin,
May.

Letter IX.

My Dear May :

Concerning the Renaissance, I must take time
and get home to a library. I have written a line
to Ripon, who is a fair historian and critic, and can
draw a little, as so few critics can ; they really write
about painting as Mr. Gambado did about riding, —
'desiring to add as much as possible to the theory,
without resorting to practice !' He, not Mr. Gambado,
will tell me what books to look at, and perhaps what to
look for and say to you. Then as to Miss M. (whom I
remember as a little fair thing, who rode a great deal),
I have taken much trouble, and paid, never you mind

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how many shillings, to do a correct drawing from a
little Anglo-Highland maid here, whom I think a great
beauty. We (her mother and I) stood her up in a dark-
blue frock and gray plaid, in just the same pose as poor
Mignon in the condemned picture ; and I send the
Milton a copy of the outline I made. She may keep
it if she likes ; but she had better copy it exactly, and
send it and the copy to me (she may get it correct with
tracing paper, if she can't any other way ; but dividing
her paper into numbered squares, by lines corresponding
to those marked I, 2, 3, and a, b, c, along the edges of my
copy, will be best). Then, if her outline is passable, I will
put the first coat of not too many colours on my sketch ;
and she may on hers, and so on. I think that may help
her along. She must condescend to method. Genius,
you know, does not mean impatience of trouble, but a
transcendent capacity of taking trouble. I do assure her
I have worked very hard, and by strict dictated method
for great part of my time. The 'Fessor's system of
instruction, from first to last, with folio illustrations and
copies, will be out in a few weeks : and then, if she will
follow it, she will get on every day : but that eagerness
always thwarts even the most willing and docile people.
Of course, where they are conceited too, it is likely to
spoil their work altogether ; but she seems very nice
and good. You don't suppose I have forgotten Bolton ?
Tell me when you go ; it will take you a day to get
there from the Shires ; and I shall be coming south in
about a week. Old Hobbes is delightful, and has asked
Ripon up here for a day or two at the deer. I have
got three more since I wrote, two killed quite clean.
The other it took us a long day's tracking to get ; and
Haco, the Norway terrier (the gillies call him ' Hack,'
I'm sorry to say), distinguished himself greatly. He

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held the scent of the wounded beast straight through
the tracks of a large herd, and for many miles after, and
brought us to him next morning. He lay dead not a
quarter of a mile from where we had turned from him
(to go to the Rattachan bothy, where we slept), and was
as stiff as a biscuit, with a glazed eye like malachite. It
took us all day to get a pony to him, and bring him
down to the lodge. We grilled and ate some of him on
the way, at Rattachan ; but I was glad to get back to
dinner with his liver as a bonne bouehe for Hobbes.

There are some other miscellaneous things I wanted
to say about the collection in your first portfolio of
subjects of your own choosing. One is, that ideas are
altogether my aversion ; and I shall be pleased with
literal studies or sketches from nature, or the object, and
with those only. By a study I mean, generally speaking,
a finished drawing of some part of a picture ; by a
sketch, an outline, or light and shade drawing, to give
a general idea of the intended effect of the whole of a
picture. One is a portion complete ; the other a whole
unfinished : and that is, I think, the correct meaning of
the words. By a picture from nature I mean one from
something not made by man ; by one from the object,
I mean all studies from casts, or copies of models, or ele-
vations of steam engines, if you like. Do these — at least
do the first two classes of drawings — from any natural
object in, or nearly in, its natural state, and you will
certainly make progress. But if you work now at ideal
groups, or scenes you haven't seen, you never will do any
good at all. And consider that appreciation is not origi-
nality or novel invention ; and that what you have just
understood and feel as pathetic may have been felt and
represented a hundred times over ; so that, unless you
can do it again with yet unknown vigour or skill, you

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are in fact wasting time. How many Margarets and
Mignons are done every year in a professional and
commercial way, but very skilfully ! Verditer, the art-
master, or Miss Sienna, the pupil-teacher, know how to
paint better than you, because they never do anything
else. They get a pretty brunette or blonde to sit to
them, and go to South Kensington to copy an old bric-
a-brac spinning-wheel ; and what do you suppose is the
use of doing the things, or the worth of them when done ?
They are useful to the painter, just in so far as he does
every touch faithfully from nature or object ; their value
to the buyer is just technical, as good or bad painting.
And you see, all the feeling in the world will not pre-
vent their drawing being more decisive, and their colours
better laid on than yours.

But you have the advantage of seeing much more
natural beauty than they. You can learn to do
historical sketches from nature, to the effect that such
and such a rock or tree looked beautiful thus and
thus, at such a time. That is realism ; and has true
worth : every such sketch is a record of your intelligent
delight in God's work ; it has its value, though per-
haps no great market value. Of course, in some
instances, its worth is obvious. Here is a very good
Nile sketch, — sunrise, some maize, desert beyond, and
pelicans. All that is new information, fresh, realist
knowledge of facts. The things are like that ; and many
don't know it till they see the picture. If closely painted,
and really true, such a thing is worth more than any
ideal figure can be, which is not technically perfect, and
an absolute model of hand-skill ; in that it is only for
persons of intense passion, and geniuses of heavy calibre
to attempt to interpret great poetic ideals pictorially.
Stick to your work from nature ; and she will give you

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

genuine inspirations of your own now and then : you
can't be Goethe by admiring Goethe.

Flora told me which were yours ; and they are like
yourself, tender and strong. They are second best of
all, nearly first. No. — , which I put foremost by a neck,
is as good as I could do, and better. It is a pity that
damosel will do nothing but trees and lanes and quiet
water ; and she will assuredly go off if she does not
learn new subjects. But, as the thing stands, it is more
perfect than yours ; for yours is unequally finished. You
attempt more, and partly do it ; but she knows exactly
what she can do, and tries no farther : hence an even-
ness of touch and equality of tone and finish all over,
which yours has not quite got. Look well at hers, and
you can beat it next time.

Ever yours, affectionately,

C. C.

Inclosure. — I wrote these last September, at Bolton,
when you were at Tavistock. I suppose I must call
them a Fescennine, as they're not in any metre to
speak of.

There 's now and then a red leaf flying,

But the birches are hardly growing sere ;
In the pines there 's a gentle southern sighing ;

And we revel in the strength of the year.
There are late roses lingering, not fading:

But all through the long sweet day
We weary for a {'long' scratched out, but left
legible) tall, sweet maiden ;

And she rejoices in the name of May.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

ii.

It is autumn brown ; and the heather

All bronzed and purple with the sun,
Sends it strong birds of dark-red feather,

To rattle up, and crow before the gun.
Pereunt, like the hours, et imputantur :

They get shot and counted all the day;
But, still in spite of all the sport, we want her :

We can't anyhow get on without our May.

III.

She walks by a southern river :

Her feet are deep in southern flowers ;
She hears not the birches' scented shiver,

Or the honied whisper of the moors.
No ; she gets on well enough without us ;

But, swallow, swallow, fly to her, and say,
Though she may not condescend to think about us,

We 're all of us a-dreaming about May.

IV.

What's that springs between the stream and heaven?

— Would you tell me now, O salmon, newly run?
Dc you think you 're in a certain stream in Devon ?

And did you jump to see the Lovely one ?
You don't say so — fish are uncommunicative;

Let me put twenty yards of line your way;
Now show your pluck ,and enterprise, you caitiff,

And rise at me, as I would rise at May.

E 2

CHAPTER IV.

' T3 EADY ! 'ave a care then ! ah, would you, ye brute ?

AV Ready, wor' are then!' Crack of keeper's whip.
' Ready,' a black-and-tan setter, stands looking unutterably
dismal, and slobbering after the 'blue,' or mountain hare —
now beginning to show signs of change in his white winter
fur— which has just started before his nose. Charley
steps on a tussock, catches one glance of the victim in
the line of a peat-drain, keeps holding where he ought to
be for a moment or two, and catches him neatly in the
next angle. Bang ! The quick timid thing rolls over
unconscious, struck by quick death and onrushing dark-
ness invisible. May it be no worse with any of us as to
duration and method of the change in question !

Down to charge go ' Ready ' and ' Kiss,' the black-and-
tan beauties of the Lewis, pride of the Old Trapper, who
may well be proud of them. Charles is reloaded in three
seconds from his shot. Pause, hare picked up. ' Hold
up, good dogs ; bother to stop for a hare.'

' Fun to hear old Clegg's English rate up here in
Ross-shire,' says Dick Ripon, the Oxford divine, endi-
manche for six weeks' sport by kind invitation of the
mighty Hobbes, who makes grim answer, —

' Yes, Rip ; but don't talk, and spread a little. We
haven't shot this ground this year : grouse will lie this
warm morning. I want to send off forty brace.'

It was where the coast-road made a turn towards the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

sea, at the beginning of their home-ground at Tom-
buie, on Loch Tulla, a bay of the larger Loch Hourn, in
West Ross-shire (those lochs are not exactly there ; but
their names are very good names, and will do). Looking
seaward, the hills of the north of Skye lay purple-gray
with gray-golden lights, on a strange steel-blue mirror of
sea, dead-still itself, with the magic calms of refraction
in distance here and there. The Isle of Mist wore its
thin delicate shroud of fair-weather vapour, silver on the
golden hills, visible for once in their brightest autumn
colours, with every crag and hollow on their sides defined
in azure. The spaces of moor were glowing russet : the
grassy slopes were pale rich masses of light : the glens
lay mostly in deep and viewless blue under the long hill-
shadows. Here and there was a reflection on the quiet
sea : and far onward were spaces of calm and faint un-
dulation, with the heave of the great Atlantic under all,
keeping up its undertone of days that were, and days to
be, against the mainland rocks below their feet. Green,
clear, and unstained, in slumber not of peace, the heavy,
unbroken tide washed and sucked, and rolled sinuously
along, searching every cranny and recess of the cliffs of
pink granite ; and scornfully they let it come and go.
The challenge of the northern trumpets, and the endless
onset of their white breakers, were nearly due : as it had
been, so it would be. Meanwhile, it was a sunshiny
morning : and crimson felspar against a green sea made
a pleasant contrast enough. In the further offing there
was the line of the Long Island, far away to the Butt of
the Lewis, with many a jagged dike and seam and horn
and beaked promontory, ending in that mightiest pre-
cipice of all, which is so specially impressive from the
mainland (when you can see it) because of its abrupt
perpendicular dive, at that great distance, from high

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

mountain-level in a leap to the Atlantic. All round,
and far away to where gray light of heaven met gray
light of sea, ' the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, moaned
round the melancholy Hebrides,' in the restless faith and
hope of overwhelming and devouring them at last ; and
gulls and terns, cormorants and guillemots, wailed, sailed,
and clanged on the edge of the tide ; and two great
black whales were playing and spouting just outside the
bay. And Charley and the Reverend Ripon took note
of every thing, while the former prepared to go off to
take an upper hillside by himself, and the latter to fol-
low their mighty host over the grouse sanctuary, — the
favoured beat by the sea l.

1 These were Charley's plans for a water-colour, some day, on
the scene as he saw it that afternoon, during luncheon on the higher
moors : —

A long-shaped picture, rather narrow. Paper washed with yellow
ochre and light red first ; then blue sky, faint ultramarine and
white, to edges of cumulus clouds, their shadows ultramarine and
rose-madder; then all shaded parts of distant hills same, but
deeper and bluer than cloud-shadows. Let dry, and gradate on
lights of distance with rose and yellow ochre. Draw on all detail, —
in the shadows with ultramarine ; in the lights with carmine. Glaze
rose and cadmium, or yellow only, till all falls together. Repeat
detail, and stipple where necessary.

Middle distance is all sea. Gradate on cobalt and emerald-green ;
glaze yellow ochre over in lights ; deepen darks with rose and ultra-
marine ; work in indigo and Indian red to darken further, towards
back and foreground. A small island, purple shadows, carmine and
cobalt first, golden lights over them (yellow ochre, rose, and a little
white) ; then coloured lights and shadows in subdued contrast, with
faint purple-grey reflection in green sea.

Foreground. — Lights first, pink granite ; then, to get rid of papery
look, go over the whole, leaving lights, with warm gray shadows,
— raw sienna, light red, and indigo. Dark parts decidedly stronger
than darkest parts of sea. Leave forms of foreground rocks, —
cobalt, light red, and a little yellow ochre (black or lake may be
added to this grey, in the smallest quantity). Draw rock forms ex-

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They had a fair middle distance and foreground.
This is a painter's book, and a kind of painter wrote it
for such kind of people ; and it pleases him to have
as many pictures in it as he can. Wherefore think of
the sea-distance as all gray, and the middle distance
as all sea. By gray I mean gold and purple veiled in
gray mist and light, toning deeper from the sea-hori-
zon into heavy purple and green ground-swell, with
white foam breaking out here and there indolently ;
then pink granite meeting the surf, and swart heather
and blaeberries clothing the granite with rolling swells
of heather. There were, last, spurs of great moun-
tains inland, enclosing sheltered lawns and larger or
smaller 'waters,' thrust north and south by the ribs of
the hill in their westward course, and whispering or
thundering to the sea, according to the state of the rain-
gauge. In and out of these little glens, or bays, gnarled
Scotch firs, and old birch, and stunted little oaks, grew,
or, at all events, persisted in asserting their existence,
and proclaiming their obedience to the usual laws
of vegetation. There the roe-deer lay warm all day,
and the early cocks rested first in autumn ; and the heron
stood at ease on whichever leg he liked ; and the ouzels
cut in and out, black and white, like hard-working
curates ; and seal and otter harboured in the sea-caves,
and the badgers among boulders and oak-roots. They
were blessed places, all short sweet grass and honeyed
heather. And where the rough road crossed the upper
end of one of them ; by a gray lichened bridge with a

actly, and be very careful with their perspective, to get solidity
and distance. Two stags ; near one rather exaggerated in light
and shade,— light red and burnt umber, perhaps darkened with
violet carmine. Study heather and stones carefully, — pink, green,
and gray, but not too much varied.

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broken parapet ; above a brown and white torrent, whirl-
ing like black oil in its last pool before a tormented
course of rapids ; and under a great flat-headed pine,
whose roots held the granite in the grip of a vice for ten
feet perpendicular to the water's edge — the shooting-
party divided till luncheon. Cawthorne went inland with
Duncan and a gillie, Duncan consenting to awake from
his usual dream of deer, and shoot grouse like a shentle-
mans : fair second-rate shots both. Hobbes, who was
first-rate, took Ripon with him, because he could'nt shoot
at all, but was safe, obedient and good company. He was
an excitable sort of over-quick man, who either missed
clean or killed dead. ' I don't much care which he does,'
Hobbes used to say ; ' one or other is all right ; only
don't let us have any mere cutting and wounding.'

Nature had certainly supplied the Rev. Richard Ripon
with an unusual amount of nervous vivacity ; and a life
of considerable variety— between short delight, heavy
grief, travel, and scholar- work — had landed him, at forty,
in a big town parish, where dirt, distress, distraction,
ringers, singers, and clerk, charities, choir, church-war-
dens, and mephitic old ladies, had pretty well drawn on
the remnant of his heart and brains. The latter, he
said, all went into sermons : the former had come to
an end long ago ; and now he had no more than Me-
phistophiles : his work and his digestion were all that
was left him. He was pretty well alone in the world.
He wanted to live between High Church and Low
Church, and had become a kind of ecclesiastical Ishmael,
except that men liked him for a certain quickness of
sympathy, which made him a good listener, and perhaps
somewhat of a humbug. So it was, that many whom
he much regarded first left him, and then abused him
by way of finding a reason. He sent a little money to

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

the Rev. Damascenus Ignifer ; and so one section of his
parish went off to the Rev. Allfire Hammerantongs. He
went and talked to the Rev. Allfire's school about a
trip to Mount Sinai ; and the scandalous fact was duly
notified to his High Church friends by the Rev. Dama-
scenus's sisters, and guilds, and acolytes, and preaching
fathers. Finally, he went and preached his usual sort
of sermon for Mr. Newbroom, who was suspected of
intellectual scepticism. Newbroom's adherents thought
him conventionally orthodox : in fact, he was pronounced
a Laodicean on all hands. It does no good to be over-
independent, unless you show it by universal aggression.
If you try to work with everybody, people think you
are trying to court everybody. But as the Rev. Rip
had a quick eye for character, and a tolerably sharp
tongue on occasion, a sufficient income for his limited
wants, and a pretty free hand, — why, they tolerated him,
as a rule, or abused him strictly behind his back ; and
he had read the ' Arabian Nights ' to far too good
purpose ever to look round.

Finding himself little regarded by anybody except
his own poor and the boys in general (he was great at
school-treats and prizes for swimming), the Reverend
by no means refused sport when he could get it. He
rode a good horse, mostly in Port Meadow : till very
lately he had never shot or hunted south of Tweed,
except now and then at a Yorkshire grouse-drive ;
and he had no home-amusement except landscape-
painting, of which he had a fair student's knowledge.
But salmon-fishing, or a day at the deer, he said,
would have been his heart's delight, if he had had any
heart, or been capable of delight And so the great
Hobbes, who was the kindest of men to everything he
considered a man, used to ask him to Tombuie late in

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

the season. Charles and he were near connections, and
were held together by a dead hand and dear. So the
three were sufficiently merry men, and made the most
of a golden October in the West Highlands. It was a
pleasant time : Ripon said he knew how good it must
be ; for he caught himself nervously holding on to the
hours, and wishing they would not go so fast.

This day, at all events, the hours and the dogs were
quite fast enough for him. Grouse-shooting on rough
moors, where birds lie scattered, is one of the hardest
exercises that can be taken. The effort of sticking to
wide-ranging fast setters, through deep heather, and up
long slopes, is severe, to say the least ; and the excite-
ment of shooting tells on a stranger, though his condition
and skill be ever so good. None of the party were ill
pleased as they crossed the last ridge, or beallach^ as
the Gael have it, and saw the scattered trees and thin
smoke which indicated that Tombuie Lodge was within
a mile or so, and that dinner was preparing at Tombuie.

'Down hill all the way now, and first-rate ground, not
touched this year,' said the host. 1 Have a good nip of
sherry, old man, and shoot your best now : kill dead, or
let 'em go. It would be heart-breaking to have to follow
up ; and we can't spare time to look for runners. Twenty-
five brace, you said, Clegg ? '

' That, and five hares, three teal, two couple snipe, two
and a half black game, seven plover,' said the keeper.

' Very well : let Ready and Kiss loose again then, and
take up the young dogs.'

A few more grouse were realised ; then there was a
pause till they reached a small tarn near home. Clegg
was beginning to look blank — when first one and then
the other setter stopped as if they had been shot.
'To ho ! 5 low and steady. Hobbes gets round,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

heading the dogs, who are stiff and bristling, with
starting eyes. Whirr-cock-cock-cock-cock ! The two
old birds and a well-grown young one rise and fall
promptly. T Master is as usual ; and Rip holds
straight this time. Whirr-r-r-r-r ! five more close to-
gether. Rip's first barrel slays two ; his second goes,
he has never ascertained where ; the long one kills
with his right, and is just too late for his left barrel.
How many 's that ? ' Hold up, Kiss ! ' Kiss won't move.
' There 's anither, sir.' The ither gets up at Rip's feet,
who fires too soon, and misses clean, seeing the bird
fall to Hobbes' shot a second after. ' Seek dead ! ' and
the dogs bestir themselves. Seven birds down before
they moved : pretty, to finish with. Of all fun, there
is nothing like breech-loaders and an accommodating
covey of grouse; and the picking- up afterwards has its
charms for tired men and animals.

But few more shots were fired before they reached
the long straggling woods, a sanctuary of roe-deer ; and
there they gave over shooting, with thirty brace of
grouse, and et cceteras. As they passed the kennels,
they heard Charley's voice and whistle, and watched
him and his men skipping and splashing among the
black and green channels of a peculiarly deep bog,
which had existed time out of mind close to the road
and shooting-lodge, undrainable and ill to pass. Charley
presents himself, however, looking browner and leaner
than usual, in a jerkin of Fraser green, like bent-grass,
with the small glass and compass he always affects,
and a saw-backed skene-dhu attached to the same ; all
stained and ' sore with travel,' — the sort of man who has
trodden the hills, and felled the deer, ever since the
bronze age, or thereabouts. He has got thirteen brace
of grouse, and four of ptarmigan, sparing hares for a

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

general beat at the end of all things. All are tired and
hungry, and right little is said till dinner, and then still
less for a considerable period ; that is to say, till loch
oysters, hare-soup of extreme density, salmon steaks, and
a glass of chablis, with a circulating pewter, have per-
formed their orbits, and a red-deer haunch takes their
place. It is the hunter's mess. None of them have
touched beef or mutton for three weeks, except the
Sunday steak, which is regularly forwarded from Inver-
ness — as a matter of ritual. 1 And hereon ' (as we
believe it is written somewhere in the Morte d'Arthur,
or other ancient chronicles) ' the knights ate strongly by
the space of an hour or thereabout, until they wellnigh
swooned,' but were revived by a snipe apiece, apple-pie,
sherry, oat-cake, and butter, and the final pewter. Then
there were two tumblers and a cigar each ; Rip was
lectured about his shooting ; the dogs and their doings
were exhaustively discussed ; and they would all have
been fast asleep in five minutes more, if tea and the late
letter-bag had not arrived.

' Your club's at you, Charley. I see Lady Latter-
math's hand and seal,' said Ripon, who had soon dis-
posed of his limited correspondence, — one letter from
his curates ; another, in large text, from Master Walter
Ripon at school ; and a bundle of proofs which he put
in his pocket ' for the next wet day, if the river wouldn't
fish.'

' Well, it concerns you, rather. They want me to
write them a paper on the Renaissance. Just the
thing for you : they all believe in you to any ex-
tent.'

' Might as well write a history of modern Europe :
that's what it means.'

' Haven't you got any old lectures or talks about

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Holbein or Michael Angelo, or old reviews, or anything
of the sort?'

' Well, I've got proofs of a lecture on the " Cinque
Cento" up stairs: that means the same thing in com-
mon language, you know. There's no reason they
shouldn't have it, except that " The Oracle of Crotona "
is sure to be down on it ; and I suppose they won't care
for it after that.'

' None of us read " The Oracle," that I know of :
that's the best cure I know ; like Persian powder for
fleabites.'

' Well,' said Hobbes, with a mighty yawn and stretch,
' it seems I must go and stump Gorsehamptonshire on
3rd November; and I shall want to be home a week
before. Let's all go south on the 28th at latest : Glas-
gow steamer calls then. We really ought to leave off
salmon-fishing soon ; the stags will be getting too far
on ; the cocks won't be here in time for us ; besides, the
fine weather can't go on for ever. Come home with me,
either or both of you ? You'll be of use if there's much
talking to do ; and there are some pheasants. It's nice
to have you.'

' Thank you ever so, but there are my old women ;
and Charley has his young ones to lecture,' quoth Rip.
' I think you had better not have men to speak who
don't belong to your county ; nest-ce pas ? I should
like to write anything for you, though.'

' Halloo, here's the Susanette been breaking her heart
because I abused her picture. How was I to know it
was hers ? '

'You're always falling out with Miss Milton,' Hobbes
observed. ' Don't you remember how angry she was
when you told her her apron-pockets made her look
marsupial ? You'll be falling in love with each other next.'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

' You think that likely ; don't you now ? But I must
write her something pleasant, or, rather, write it to
Flora. What's to be done to-morrow?'

' Hark, there's heavy rain ! Fish the Blackwater, if
it clears enough by the afternoon ; try and drive Slioch
Muick if it don't: — a half- day or off-day anyhow.
You'll have time to write.'

' Well, I had a club letter nearly ready ; but I think
I must write another to go before it, and address myself
to a lot of their mistakes.'

' There's Rip gone to sleep. Wake up, old man ;
have some soda-water; and let's all to bed.' Exetint.

Charley's letter next day has already been reported
at Hawkstone : his earlier one was nearly to the fol-
lowing purpose : —

Letter X.

TOMBUIE, Oct. 12.

My Dear Flora :

There was an omission in my last letter about
your learning practical perspective by drawing outlines
of things on and through a square of glass ; or rather,
I have thought of a new dodge with the said glass.
When you have got it, wash one side of it over with
strong, clear gum-water, and let it dry thoroughly.
Then take a steel crowquill, or a mathematical pen, or
anything fine, and draw on the film of gum a scale of
squares, quarter-inch size, — say a dozen each way, —
numbering each square. Then, if you hold that up
against any object, and have your paper squared in
pencil, in half-inches, inches, or more, you will be able,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

first, to alter, the size of anything you are drawing, and
draw it again to scale in exact proportion. You cannot
think how your eye will gain in accuracy by this means.
And then, secondly, you will be able to practise por-
traits all this winter. You see, if you hold up your
squared glass at your sitter, and get the corner of his
eye on one of the lines, you can determine all his
distances at one view : it will show you on your squared
paper where all the points and corners of his face are.
It will be good practice for all the best of you.

I find the following passage in Hamerton's ' Thoughts
about Art.' I always held that a certain knowledge of
figure-drawing was necessary to every landscape-painter,
and indeed to every draughtsman. I believe I got the
notion from Armitage's ' Evidence to the Royal Aca-
demy Commission' : if that did nothing else, it drew out
a number of good ideas. But this sort of dictum from
one crack landscape-man, and through another, is
of importance to you, and to all the club. I will
make you a set of instructions for portrait as soon as
I can ; but Ripon's Renaissance lecture, or essay, must
come next after this. The Stray Rook, as Hobbes calls
him, was ready in a minute. What he does, he can
generally do quickly. But thus says Hamerton : —

{ The study of landscape is not a good initiation into
the technical art of painting. Mr. Peter Graham, one of
the most thoroughly accomplished landscape-painters
the world has ever seen, told me that, in his opinion
(and I am profoundly convinced of the truth and justice
of the opinion), landscape does not afford good material
for early study, on account of its extreme intricacy, and
the difficulty of determining the exact value of what you
have done. He believes, and so do I, that the shortest
road to good landscape-painting is an indirect road ;

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

and that he himself got his first initiation into the mys-
teries of landscape-effect through constant observation
of the delicate play of light and shade in a gallery of
statues. He earnestly recommends the practice of pro-
traiture as the best of preliminary training. It is a com-
plete mistake to go to landscape under the impression
that it is easy. The naked figure, difficult as that also
is, is a simple object in comparison with a forest or a
mountain. We ought to proceed, in study, from sim-
plicity to intricacy ; and the great difficulty in landscape
is to find anything that is simple enough for early study.'

This is, of course, particularly directed to those who
want to study landscape in good earnest I am sure it
will be good for all such persons to begin by learning to
draw the figure ; though as to difficulty, you will hardly
persuade me that a figure in action is not worse than any
mountain. But now, if you don't mind, I think I must
talk in this letter about very common things and opera-
tions in pencil or water-colour. You know, as I told you,
there is no such thing as amateur art ; only skilful or
unskilful, good or bad. And much of the work you send
me is so far unskilful as not to be quite good. Things
are brought nearly right at last ; the desired effect is so
far produced, that I know what the artist meant to do.
The work was intended to express an idea, and it does
express that idea : many of you get so far as that. But
the eye of a skilled critic (I suppose I am that to a
certain extent) demands to be pleased with the working
as well as the work. Things are sent me which have
been patched, re-done, and worked out, sometimes well
and conscientiously ; and I give all credit to their authors
for doing their best. But there are a few of the strongest
among you who often do things quite right, without
undoing or re-touch ; and that is a higher state of

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

things. And one or two have got so far that I can
really rely upon them ; that is to say, I know their
minds follow their brushes. I can see every touch ; and
all their touches mean something, or are part of a
meaning. That is good painting : but very few of
you ever keep it up through a large drawing ; whereas,
many of you want methodical certainty of operation,
and nothing but practice will give it. Watch any good
workman in water-colour. How the paints always mix
and flow from his brush ! what clean lines and touches !
he has so few accidents or messes ; he seems to get the
right pitch of shade, and the right hue of colour, all at
once. How fast he gets on, from never having to do
a thing twice, and so on ! All that strikes one in look-
ing at anybody pushing on some part of his picture
when he has studied it before, and knows all the ropes.
This is what you really want, most of you, and what
makes the difference between what we, or the papers,
call 'professional' work, and 'amateur' work, — that the
professional is certain, methodical, and, perhaps, rather
cool and easy, about all minor and preparatory opera-
tions ; while the amateur is uncertain and excited.
Nothing but practice will give you certainty ; and I
have written down certain practices for you all.

EXERCISE I.

First, in chalk, or broad pencil. Get a board, — a
black one, or white one, whichever you like. Put it on
an easel, and draw a square on it with a piece of chalk
or charcoal ; then draw a circle round the square. Draw
from the shoulder, without resting your hand : never
mind how difficult or impossible it seems. Do it on a
large slate, if you like, or on the wall, or anyhow ; only

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

hold your charcoal as you would your umbrella, and use
it freely from the shoulder. What you can't do one day,
you will begin to do the next, and do well in a week.
(N.B. — It is easiest to draw a circle in two halves, upper
and under.) So all curves : whenever you can, draw
them by pairs or halves. Always do so in copying
decorative patterns.

Second, draw a square six inches in diameter on the
wall, and shade it, from the shoulder, to a flat surface,
by even parallel lines only.

Then try it diagonisingly, this way, and that way.

You can do this for five minutes at a time, and it will
soon give you such clearness, courage, and neatness of
work in your drawing, as will cheer you all through it ;
you have drawn enough to know what it means to feel
stronger at your work. The fact is, that nothing exer-
cises the connecting nerves between the eye and hand,
whatever they are, so well as this practice from the
shoulder. It is a step towards the real painter's para-
dise on earth, — being able to do what you want. You
may be sure that the terms ' brilliancy of touch,' ' fresh-
ness,' ' abandon,' and the rest of it, express real things.
May's study of eggs now before me has these qualities.
It means that the performer saw with pleasure, as she
did her work, that it was going right, doing well ; and,
so to speak, let her hand fly. Well, then her hand
put on the right force of touch, and just squoze the right
quantity of colour out of the brush in the right place :
I'm sure I can't say how. Confidence, quickness, pre-
cision,— all those words and things have something to
do with it.

Well, ponder hereon, and rejoice therefore, and all
that. But now, half of you do not know how to lay
washes of colour on in gradation. It is a mere matter

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

of practice : nobody does it by nature. If anybody
could, some of you might do it ; for you have all enough
feeling, which means wish to do it. You all think in
your hearts that you have so much more feeling and
aspiration and passion than working-artists have. Of
course you have. Your art is play, or, at most, holiday
work. Not but that it is real exertion while you are at
it ; but you don't live by it, and its failure would only
vex you, and not half starve you. You do it with all
your heart, as children run and jump with all their
hearts ; but, if children were obliged to run and jump
all day for their bread and butter, they would not be
so hearty. You see it is a greater and more difficult
thing to get enthusiasm into one's life's work than
it is into one's life's recreation. Now as to gradating
colour. All the club, except Nos. 1-5 on enclosed list,
ought to practise something of this kind with a good
red sable, and not on rough paper, which I object to
altogether.

EXERCISE II.

Get a quarter-sheet of paper properly stretched on a
board ; or a good sketching-block (only with this latter you
must use as little water as possible, for fear of wetting
the gum with which the sheets are fastened one to an-
other) ; moisten the surface with a flat brush and water ;
do not drench it, but wet the whole. Slope it, and let it
dry till colour will not run on any part of it. Mean-
while prepare a small saucer half full of a light tint of
sepia. Have clean water by you, besides that which
you have used, and two rather large brushes (I am
always for red sables). Fill one of them nearly full,
mixing your tint up to the last moment ; and begin to
lay it on across the paper at top, in light steady strokes,

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diagonally downwards from right to left, or any way you
like ; only make them flow evenly into each other, so as
to spread the tint without lines or spots. (When you
find a wash of colour dry in blotches or clouds, it is
always because your tint was unevenly mixed in the
brush, so that there were more particles of sepia in one
part of the brush than another ; or because your brush
was fuller in one place than another, and therefore laid
more particles on there : so do not fill your brush too
full at first, and feed it again before it is empty. Never
allow yourself to be careless in this, when you are laying
on broad surfaces of colour) .

Well, when your first brushful is nearly gone, take the
other brush with clean water, and drop two or three
drops of it into the tint ; then mix up all with the
working-hmsh., and lay that on, carefully running it into
what you have on already : the result will be gradation
into a lighter tint. Go on that way all over the paper,
dropping clean water into the tint with the clean brush,
and always mixing up with the working-brush. You
ought to get to the bottom of your paper with clean
water in your working-brush, and a perfect gradation
from shade to light all over your paper. It will surprise
you to see what a luminous effect the brown wash will
give by mere gradation : it will be quite transparent, so
that you can look into the paper. Let it get quite dry,
and do it again — as with the others which are coming.

Then try it with any sunset-blue tint, — say cobalt and
rose-madder. Go over your paper with it as above.
Then let it get quite dry. Don't hurry it at the fire, but
let it dry of itself. Meanwhile mix up some yellow
ochre and rose, or cadmium yellow, if you like. I think
myself there's more light in yellow ochre. When you
have got the pale crimson or warm yellow you fancy,

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slope the paper the other way up, and go over it from
the bottom the other way, over the blue. The result
ought to be a perfectly bright and flat sunset sky.

Now you ought all to practise skies thus. As you get
more skilful, try it this way : Lay on the cobalt and
rose-madder for about an inch of your paper ; then drop
in the clean water as above, and also, with the point of
the working-brush, take up a little more rose-madder ;
mix up, and lay on, thus substituting that hue in the
brush for the cobalt. Do it again and again till your
wash is pink instead of blue ; then, if you have room,
substitute yellow in the brush for pink in the same
way; dipping the working-brush slightly in yellow ochre
every time you drop in the clean water with the clean
brush, and thoroughly mixing up each time.

Of course I don't want to limit you to sunset colours,
or any colours in particular. Here are some sky and
cloud gradations. For clouds, you can always paint
them on to your gradated sky, or take their lights out
(always to planned form), with a firm short-haired brush.
(N.B. — Have long-haired and pointed sables to lay on
with, short ones to take off with.)

FLAT SKIES FOR PRACTICE : FAIR WEATHER, GRAY ON HORIZON.
PROCESSES.

a. Flat wash of yellow ochre and a little brown madder (or light

red). Lay on evenly all over the paper. Let dry.

b. Mix cobalt and white. Gradate as above, coming to clear water

two-thirds down the paper. That will be your horizon. Let
dry, and slope the other way.

c . Rose-madder, cobalt, and a little white. Begin at horizon, and

gradate rapidly, so as to go over the cobalt with a very light
tint. Let dry.

d. Then, if you want light, fair-weather clouds, take out their forms

with brush and clean water, and beware of taking off too much,
or anything except in a planned form. Never think of inventing
clouds, whatever you do : they won't stand it.

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e. Having got the bright sides of your clouds, put in their faint
shadows with rose madder and cobalt. You cannot be too
cautious in these two last operations. The main difficulty, and
it is considerable, is to take off and put on little enough at a
time. If you do either too much, your cirrus comes pushing
forward out of heaven right in your eye.

You see we have already got out of flat practice-washes
of colour into forms ; and those sadly difficult ones. I
could not make and send you drawings of cloud-forms,
without much time and labour, — more than I can afford
at the price. But you can all of you try to draw with
pencil only, the forms of white cirri or small lower clouds,
sometimes. You won't have much to show for it, for which
I hope you will not care ; but you will learn very much.
If you want copies on paper, none are nearly so good as
those at pp. 120, 122, 125, vol. v. of 'Modern Painters.'
Study those cloud-chapters with all your hearts. (The
club ought to have at least three strongly bound copies of
vols. iv. and v., and send them about for reference.) I
must give you another sky, or beginning of a sky : the
forms you must observe, and put in for yourselves ; or
find them in ' Modern Painters/ or in Turner's ' Liber
Studiorum,' where you can find anything in landscape,
if you look.

STORMY TOWARDS EVENING. EXERCISE III.

From top of paper to half down it, mix, and gradate
to nothing, light red, cobalt, a little indigo (or lamp-
black). Let dry, and slope the other way. Begin again
from about one-fourth down the paper as it lies reversed.
Now gradate over the gray to nothing with a little ver-
milion and yellow ochre; you will see how it will lighten
and warm up the gray. Then put some rolling forms

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into the clouds, with both the tints mixed together, —
faint, faint everywhere, but faintest towards the light.
To know the forms, you must look for them — in Nature,
in 'Modern Painters,' or in Turner, or any good modern
work you can get at. I cannot send you them in wood-
cut ; and, after all, I do not care very much to do so,
as it is utterly inadequate. As sketchers, you are vowed
to the duties of observation as well as imitation : in-
deed, you may be called an Observantine Sisterhood ;
and it will do you all the good in the world to draw
cirri or cumuli in pencil outline.

One more gradation exercise. Ripon was after deer
on some very green hills the other day. He got a
tolerable stag of eight points after a long stalk, and
came home without a dry thread, of course, having been
in that state from nine to nine, or thereabouts. The
forester got a touch of rheumatics, and Rip lost his voice.
When he got it again, he told me that he had been in
some degree comforted, while lying on wet brackens,
and being rained upon, by seeing the beautiful grada-
tions of green hills looming through volumes of gray
mist. He made me a nice note of the colours, — cobalt,
light red, and indigo gradated to nothing first for mist ;
then a wash of vermilion and yellow ochre all over
(drying between, of course, for light on mist) then upside
down ; and emerald green and yellow ochre, gradated to
nothing from the bottom of the paper, till it vanished in
the gray mist. He put in a firm sort of purple-gray
rock-foreground, with green ; and it made a very good
sketch indeed. He has written what we consider a
screamer, about the Renaissance, with new lights of
course ; and read it to Hobbes and me, after shooting.
We all went to sleep ; Rip first, I think. But in the
morning I thought his paper worth reading: it is Pr a

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lecture somewhere. But he has let me copy it for you,
and I will send it in my next.

If you will do these exercises faithfully, they will
teach you the use of water-colour, used thinly and in
distance ; and, further, you will get a notion from some
of them what an advantage it gives a picture in breadth
and impression, when there are only two or three colours
in it, well varied in tint and tone. To give a notion of
this I add two very plain contrasts.

EXERCISES IV AND V.

One is the gray, as above (cobalt, light red, and a
touch of indigo), slightly gradated, and left in faint
streaks, with the faintest yellow ochre, and some light-
red gradated on at the bottom. That would make a
nice beginning for a picture of rain over sands. I wish
some of you would take up that subject, and see what
you can do with the above colours. The other is the
first stage of a sketch of frost-fog in the evening, with
the tint of a sheet of ice below. Do it in this order :
Gradate on the gray as usual ; then invert, and do same
with rose-and-cobalt purple at bottom, leaving a space
between very light ; let dry ; then begin at top with
water, taking in a little rose and yellow ; make it a
telling pale crimson on the lightest part ; and then gra-
date off to nothing at horizon. A few half-drawn figures,
or a sleigh, or some wild geese, with some white touches
on the ice, would make this quite a picture.

I want to see if you can make these exercises of use.
You need not have copies of them sent round, that I
see, if you will take them one by one, read them de-
liberately, and get your colours and things all ready to
your hand before you begin them. The handiness. of

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water-colour is a great temptation and difficulty in the
long-run : one is always being led into rash beginnings
before one is ready, from pure impatience to be at it, and
because one can hit the right tint easily. Take all these
skies seriatim, as soon as you have learnt to gradate
with sepia : it will be, at least, first-rate practice for you
all ; not only because it will make you neat-handed,
quick, and methodical with brushes and saucers, but
because it will educate your eyes, and you will see so
much more gradation in all hues. You all want more of
that faculty ; very few painters have ever had enough of
it. So be content, go to work with the mixed tints as
I have written them, and you will see how they come
out.

Then, as you gain exactness of hand, begin to draw
rain as clouds, cumuli or those great heaped-up masses
one sees after thunder. Cobalt for sky round them, with,
perhaps, a little emerald green, and white in it ; faint
Indian red and indigo for the cloud shades. Be very care-
ful about the forms ; never mind their changing, which
they do every minute. Make an outline, settle where
the high lights shall be, and run your palest shade over
everything else ; then you must look at the sky again
for forms to suit what you have got ; for the first will
be gone for ever. All that's bright fades ; but a cloud
is never the same for ten seconds together. If you
must have copies, ' The Liber Studiorum ' is the book
for you, with 8 Modern Painters,' vol. v.

Ever your cousin,
C. C.

CHAPTER V.

Letter XL

TOMBUIE, Oct. 20.

My Dear Flora :

I enclose Rip's paper on the ' Cinque Cento ;
or, Renaissance.' The old Rook has made it very
long ; but, as he says, the word may mean any thing in
the mental and spiritual history of Europe since Theo-
doric : so it might have been worse. How jolly Lady
Ellen will be spelling out his periods, in that cursive
hand one never can read ! It saves me writing any
more now, except about what you call ' a study of eggs,'
which you have just sent : at least, it has just come to
hand. When you send that sort of thing by post this
way, please don't write any thing extra on the cover.
For come reason or other, ' Not to be forwarded ' was
written on your envelope ; and the post-master here,
who is a literal-minded man, never sent the packet up
to the lodge accordingly ; and only ' wondered,' as he
said, when we blew up about it, 'that it iver cam this
far.' Now, about these eggs : it seems to me you ought
all to remember the episcopal observation recorded by
Sam Weller, that eggs is indisputably eggs, and that,
consequently, a study of eggs ought to be a study of
eggs, and have nothing to do with a nest. Two or three

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of you have sent pretty drawings of green nests, red
berries, feathers, &c., and not studied the eggs at all,
which altogether avoids the real intention of the subject.
If I had given it, I should have said what sort of eggs, —
a hen's and a duck's, with a plover's or rook's, I think.
But here is a large gull-egg with strong black markings
on it ; and I like it very much, because the artist has
kept the white very white indeed, with delicate shades
of rounding, and has, moreover, gradated the black
marks on Turner's system, mentioned in my first letter,
as you may remember. I said there that Rembrandt or
Leonardo would have made the shaded side of the white
egg quite black, to secure its looking as round as pos-
sible, not caring to keep it as white as possible. They
would have had the black marks all round it scarcely
darker than the shade. Veronese would have had his
white ever so bright, even in the shade ; but his egg
might have looked rather flat, and he would have painted
his black marks quite black, evenly all round. Turner
would keep his white carefully up, but slightly gradate
his black for the sake of roundness ; and his is, after all,
the truest way.

One or two of you have odd notions of size. Here
are some eggs specified as Brahma, very nice and clear
in colour ; but it has apparently pleased Brahma to
make his hens lay eggs no bigger than rooks, unless,
indeed, the basket is intended to be the size of a clothes-
basket. Then somebody puts some very good eggs in a
pan with too much red reflection on their lower sides ;
and somebody else puts hers in a cabbage-leaf with no
green reflection at all. What an odd arrangement, —
all one upon another! Something must have excited
the chicks, or the eggs are going cracked.

My American friends have just sent me some autumn

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leaves from Vermont, of the most intense and wonderful
colours. I shall have some of them mounted on card-
board, and send them round for studies. Respect this.

Ever yours affectionately,
C. C.

MR. RIPON ON THE RENAISSANCE.

I was once an Oxford tutor of what is now the old
school ; and I remember we used to say, when newer
lights forced on our minds the fact that 'Aldrich's
Logic ' was full of mistakes, that the book and its errors
ought to be preserved, because they led to 'necessary
explanations.' I can't say much for this defence ; but I
am inclined to think that the use of the words ' cinque
cento ' can only be excused in the same way. As most
of us know, it is an equivocal term. In the first place,
one has to stipulate that it shall mean fifteen hundred
instead of five hundred ; then, when one has got leave to
mean three times as much as one says, one is involved in
the tiresome confusion which always results on our accu-
rate habit of ticketing the ages by what human nature
must for ever consider the wrong figures. To us the
fifteenth century means all the years from 1400 to 1500.
To an Italian the C. C. means from 1500 to 1600, be-
cause all those years begin with fifteen, as they are
written. We are right, of course ; but the Italian way
seems to me more pleasant somehow. It" is the way of
a painting nation, which thinks by eye and by symbol,
not always by grammatical words. The visible symbol
5 has prevailed over thought and memory : it seems
that the century which is distinguished by 5 must be
the fifteenth, and not the sixteenth.

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' Cinque cento,' then, says the Imperial Dictionary,
•'literally five hundred, is used as a contraction for
fifteen hundred, — the century in which the revival of the
architecture of Vitruvius took place in Italy ; and it is
applied to distinguish the architecture of the Italo-Vitru-
vian school generally. In decorative art, a term applied
to that attempt at purification of style, and reversion
to classical forms, which was introduced towards the
middle of the sixteenth century, elaborating the most
conspicuous characteristics of Greek and Roman art,
especially the acanthus scroll and grotesque arabesques.
. . . The term is often loosely applied to ornament of
the sixteenth century in general, properly included in
the term " renaissance." '

So let us get rid of the term 'cinque cento,' and
plunge into the various meanings of the term 'renaissance,'
' renascence,' ' revival,' ' renewal,' as various writers are
variously pleased to call it. The disputes about the word,
and the ideas which are connected v/ith it, have made it
a thoroughly equivocal word. Everybody speaks of the
renaissance of art according to his notion of what true art is.
On that question, men are unhappily of many minds and
of all shades of difference. For the present, the narrowest
sense of the word must be the one we have had ; that is
to say, the Vitruvian revival. The word may be said to
be used in that sense in Professor Ruskin's works,
especially the third volume of the ' Stones of Venice.' To
the opinion of it there expressed, he and his followers,
including myself, have always adhered, and still adhere ;
and I shall not go on about an architecture of entirely
derivative nature and merits. In as far as the Vitruvian
system deigns to use the round arch and the cupola
vault, its best constructive features, they are derived
from Rome ; and the study of Roman architecture is

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open. Its beauties of proportion and decoration come
from Greece ; and it is better for English students to go
to the British Museum, and look at the Elgin marbles,
than to try to get up decoration from the works of
gentlemen who consider acanthus scrolls and grotesque
arabesques the especial and most conspicuous charac-
teristics of Greek and Roman decorative art. In the
definition we began with, sculpture is ignored : as if the
Olympian Jupiter had been considered a necessary dis-
figurement to Elis, and the frieze of hate-filled Amazons,
and heroic youths, and the knights of Athens rolling in
their saddles (or without them), on those little horses
every one of whom would have carried Attica, were, on
the whole, not decorative, or the reverse of orna-
mental.

Then the next limitation of the Renaissance is that
adopted by M. Taine, among many others ; though he
limits his favourite period to the last twenty-five years
of the fifteenth century, and the first forty years of the
cinque cento, or sixteenth. It is the common idea, I
presume ; and the fact is, I should call it a period of
maturity, not of fresh birth or revival, as the latter years
of the sixteenth century are a time of decadence, and not
of renascence. Of course, if the period of Michael Angelo
and Rafael be a living period, that of Ghirlandajo and
Perugino cannot be a dead one ; and as Ghirlandajo
certainly studied Masaccio, as everybody has done ever
since, that takes the Revival back to his death, in 1429.
Then one cannot say that art' was dead, and wanted
fresh life in the period of Angelico, who was born in
1387, nor in Orcagna's, nor Giotto's, nor that of the
Pisani. In short, the renaissance of art had best be
taken as beginning at Pisa, and with Niccola, worker in
that city under certain Byzantine Greeks. Art revived

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in them, and grew to maturity in their successors for
three hundred years.

This putting back of the beginning of the great
European movement called renaissance, agrees with the
view taken by Mr. Bryce in his essay on the German
Empire, and with that of the charming studies of Mr.
Pater : it has just been announced again by Mr. Ruskin
in his last course of lectures. These works are popular
works ; that is to say, they are very easy and pleasant to
read ; but all alike are formed on the strictest and hardest
work, and on examination of nearly all accessible docu-
ments, written or painted. It is not the same thing to
say a man is a popular writer as to say he is a false or
superficial writer ; and this confusion seems to me pur-
posely made in many cases by the duller part of the
intellectual school. These views, however, are confirmed
by the authority of Drs. Liibke and Woltmann, Ger-
man art historians, to whom we are all deeply indebted.
We must never forget, of course, that the Revival is the
revival of all the activities of the many-sided mind ; that
it is literary, legal, musical, poetic, artistic, all together :
all these writers are careful to point this out. And I
say, that the true period of renascence is marked by the
meeting of the classical and the mediaeval mind. For
art, that meeting or combination is marked by Niccola
Pisano's beginning to study the great Chase of Mel-
eager, a bas-relief brought from Greece in Pisan galleys,
and placed in the Campo Santo. 'It is not possible
now,' says Mr. Bryce, 'to enter into the feeling with
which the relics of antiquity were regarded by those
who saw in them their only mental possession.' He
speaks for the renaissance of literature, but refers to art
directly after : ' With us, the old has been overlaid by
the new till its origin is forgotten : to them, ancient

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books were the only standard of taste, the only vehicle
of truth, the only stimulus to reflection.' He insists
greatly on the vast importance, to the Gothic mind, of
collision with the Greek or Roman, especially with the
former. ' It is to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
that we are accustomed to assign the new birth of the
human spirit with which the modern time begins. The
date is well chosen ; for it was then first that the tran-
scendent influence of Greece began to work upon the
world in literature (in art, it had begun two centuries
before). It had certainly begun before at Florence, in
art,' says Mr. Bryce ; * and even in learning, and zeal for
learning, what may be called the Roman Renaissance
begun with the passionate study of the Institutes of
Justinian.' Mr. Pater, too, takes his earliest study from
the passionate writing of 'Aucassin and Nicolette,'
also a work of the later twelfth century, as I under-
stand him. Provence studied that ; the graver Flo-
rentines took up the Institutes. Then Mr. Bryce puts
the rise of the scholastic philosophy in the thirteenth
century as its revival-period ; and I have already said
that art distinctly revives then by the Gothic Niccola's
study of Greek. ' In the fourteenth century arose in
Italy the great masters of painting and of song ; ' or they
began to arise.

Let us adopt this, and repeat it once more : there is a
Roman renaissance in the twelfth century with the study
of law, a philosophical or metaphysical renaissance in the
thirteenth, soon to be set aside for Platonism in Italy ;
then thought breaks out into colour and song in the
next age ; and the fifteenth century shows art matured,
and the revival of Greek prepared.

There is no doubt that the Lombard or Etrurian
ancestors of the Pisans and Florentines had done much

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

8 I

bas-relief of great merit before Niccola. It was merito-
rious ; and he found life in it : but, when he saw the
Greek work, he saw beauty also, face to face, and joined
the Greek interpretation of Nature to the Gothic. I
may mention in passing, what most of us are aware of,
that the church of S. Zenone in Verona is the noblest
and most complete example of this Lombard Roman-
esque work ; that is to say, of the sculpture of the
noblest race of Northern Barbarians, instructed in the
relics of Italo-Byzantine art and skill. Let us have no
mistake about the difference between old Greek models
and new Greek. Old Greek means Attic ; new Greek
means Byzantine; and Niccola began the renaissance of
art when he left his Byzantine masters to study the
older work. Till his day, the most artistic races in Italy
were only instructed in fragments, and faint, faded
traces of Latinized-Greek art. Old Rome had learnt
from Old Greece (Attica) all she ever knew of art, except
her great constructive gifts of the round arch, cupola,
and wagon vault. Till the thirteenth century, the Lom-
bards, who began by the eighth century to be the chief
students among Northern races, were taught through
old Rome in her ashes, and by new Greece or Byzan-
tium as centre of the Christian empire and the Church,
which preserved the sad relics of the graphic sciences.
They were a Scandinavian, wood-carving, and iron-
welding race, hammermen all ; and as soon as they saw
bas-relief carvings, and got access to the marbles of the
Italian Alps, they went to work with hammer and chisel
as naturally as with hammer and anvil of old.

Renaissance, then, means the spring of the Gothic
mind into delighted life on getting fresh lessons from
the Greek. I say, Gothic and Greek ; if you like, let us
say, classical and mediaeval : and this holds good in

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literature and art alike. But let us just notice Professor
Liibke's division of the renaissance of architecture, which
I think both illustrates and confirms what has been
already said. This is from his history of Renaissance
architecture. The former word, as we saw at first,
has a peculiar meaning in architecture ; that is to say,
the revival of Italian-Greek, or classical building, as
against Gothic. Yet here, also, it is a movement through
Roman work, back to Greece ; through the round
arch and vault, back to the lintel. In Early-Renais-
sance architecture, too, the effort is back to Greek work :
the difference is, that the older Pisan Goth, so called,
sympathized with the Greek in working from Nature ;
the Cinque-Cento man worked as a copyist from Rome
or Greece, not seeking Nature. Dr. Liibke's division
is into Early Renaissance, High Renaissance, and
Baroque Renaissance. And this is not different from
Mr. Ruskin's division of the classicized architecture of
Venice, into Byzantine or Gothic Renaissance, Roman,
and Grotesque. The third, and great part of the
second, of these periods appear to him, and to me, to
be decadent instead of renascent. It seems as if the
High Renaissance failed where old Roman architects
failed, — in trying to combine Greek ornament of com-
paratively low lintel or flat architecture (and not the
best part of it) with their own round - arched con-
struction.

The Roman round arch re-appears in Gothic work,
you know, in the matchless piazza of Orcagna in Flo-
rence, before 1376. But it is agreed on all hands that
Brunelleschi, the builder of the great Duomo Sta. Maria
dei Fiore of Florence, is the great typical master of the
first classical renascence in architecture (1 377-1444).
Study of old Roman work, with its gigantic power of

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scale and great constructive merits, taught him to com-
bine the grand proportions and perfect finish of classical
workmanship with the inventiveness and rich passion of
the Gothic. And he, moreover, with the earlier and
mightier architects of the Renaissance, had the sense to
abide by the round arch. I repeat, that the modern
classicism failed where the earlier Roman architecture
failed, — in trying to adapt the Greek ornament of the
low lintel to their own round-vaulted constructions.
Had Rome clung faithfully to her arch, her buildings
would have had far greater beauty ; such as is possessed
by the Casa Grimani (by Sanmicheli) and the works of
Sansovino in Venice. At all events, the modern, or
rococo grotesque, or irregular derivative styles, would
have had something in them beside proportions and
five orders ; and our streets would have been some-
thing more than tiers of boxes with square holes. The
Reform Club in Pall Mall is copied from the Farnese
Palace : that is the model of our modern street archi-
tecture, regardless of expense. Harley Street is the
economical type. Somehow, the classical renascence of
architecture has brought us to that, and even now we
are by no means sure whether we care to change it
or not.

Though I think it is far better for me to speak of
the renascence in its graphic or artistic aspects than in
others, it is impossible to separate the progress of the
fine arts, in Italy or anywhere else, from the progress of
the other activities of the human mind. And this is
shown us with absolute conclusiveness as soon as we
cross the Alps, and observe the development of the
German mind. With England and Germany, the Re-
naissance means, first, the Reformation, then the
Baconian method of experimental induction, and the

G 2

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study of Nature to the uttermost ; the modern spirit,
as Professor Matthew Arnold calls it. One great name
dominates all Northern art here : I mean Holbein's.
Diirer is the last of Mediaeval Germans, and most
German of great painters. Holbein is the greatest of
German painters, perhaps of German men ; and he and
the Reformation, in which he took most serious and
effective part, force upon us certain questions on what
is called the religious or anti-religious character of the
Renaissance. We are forced to understand that the
new birth of knowledge synchronizes with the deca-
dence of a form or system of the Faith. When know-
ledge has to contend, not with religious persecution,
but irreligious, and that from the hands of the titular
chiefs of the Christian religion ; when Leo X or Alex-
ander VI can declare, as pope, that he is the Faith, as
Louis XIV said he was the State, — then the pursuit of
truth will be non-religious, and, probably, become irre-
ligious. The death of Savonarola in 1497, by command
of Alexander VI, seems to me to mark one of the most
distressing turning-points in the history of Italy and the
world.

At that date, Italy, divided against herself, and
bereft of counsel, decided that reform in religion could
not and should not be. In 1492, Rafael and M. Angelo
are young, Lionardo in his prime, Lorenzo the Magnifi-
cent is dying, the Borgia is pope, the renascence is at
its culminating point. Well, five years after this, the
man most powerful to restore and renew the faith is
slain by the titular head of the faith, who avowedly
believes nothing. Italy gives up hope of divine rule on
earth or anywhere. Then, and soon, the natural con-
sequence is convulsive and reckless energy in all the
brilliant pursuits of the Renaissance. Christian, Neo-

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Platonist, and Neo-Pagan try altogether to make what
they can of this world, since the other is closed to them.
They go back to the time when art and song were
religion in Greece, when the theatre was the temple of
Dionysus, and the Parthenon contained the beauty of
the world. Pope or no pope, the sense of right, valour,
truth, temperance, was yet left to all who would have
it. Some cast all off, like Cellini or Giulio Romano :
others tried to hold by morals according to rules of
heathen philosophy, falling back, as heathen, on what
God had taught heathen from of old.

Yet even now, the greatest men held by the faith, and
were all Christian men; but they were against the cen-
tral religious system. Dante, Savonarola, Michael Angelo,
Holbein, were all members and movers of this move-
ment ; but it would be profoundly unhistorical to try to
give account of any of them without his Christianity.
And to an artist historian, or, rather, a student of art
and history, the Renaissance divides best at the Re-
formation ; for that is the time when art lost her true
and ancient alliance and service, and was set against
religion in the minds of all earnest artists. In the early
renascence it was considered that a man's religion —
what he thought of the spiritual world, and his own
share in it — was the chief, best, and highest subject for
his mind to be employed on, whenever he could so
employ it. Under that mediaeval, and, perhaps, not
entirely obsolete view of things, painters of high and
passionate spirit, in the intervals of fierce life and sin,
possibly cared most to work on the subjects of the
spiritual life; rejoiced in imaginations of them with
great joy; did in some sort, 'within their heads,' and
with the inner eyes of the soul, see ' angels whitening
through the dim, that they might paint them.' And

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when such men, like the Pisani, like Ghirlandajo, like
Botticelli, trained in all the inherited science of the Lorn
bard race since Alboin, came in their strength to see what
Greeks had done before them, adding the Hellenic love
of beautiful humanity to their own delight in free fields
and green leaves, they became the world's wonders,
while their works last. And Michael Angelo is great
among these, in spite of his gloom and jealousy, and the
science which spoiled his life. At all events, he was born
into the faith ; he held it ; he desired its reform and
renewal ; he died in it, confessing it with his last sonnet
and last breath, seeming to find rest, at last, in turning
his face to the wall, away from the arts he had followed
so passionately. I could not name him or any other
man as chief in the Renaissance : Pisani, Giotto, Botti-
celli, Rafael, Titian, and Tintoret, mightier than any,
are only the centre of a great cycle of greatness. But
I really wonder that there is such a conventional
admiration of Michael Angelo. It seems to be, in
fact, surgical, and not artistic. I should say that the
highest quality of his work was the least likely to be
attractive in our own day; for it is Awe. That is a
spiritual influence, if there be any spirit. I am justified
in saying that what we call awe is closely allied to the
religious sentiment ; that it is the chief effect of certain
great works of his ; and that these works — the Duke
Lorenzo, Day and Night, and even the Moses — consti-
tute Michael Angelo's chief title to be held so great in
art, They give the world assurance of a man with a
soul ; and materialism, probably, will scorn them for
ever accordingly, or go on for ever praising their thews
and sinews, and wrinkles and calves.

It is a very loose employment of our native tongue
to talk about the Renaissance as irreligious. Personi-

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fication is a good enough trick of rhetoric ; but it often
gives people absurdly confused ideas. Really, there
never was a beautiful, very learned, rather ill-conducted,
sceptical live lady of the name of Renaissance, who
never went to church or said her prayers, but taught
everybody the religious principles of Leo X. We mean
by this word, as we use it, not only the revival of art
and literature, but all the men and women in and for
whom they were revived. Now, these were not all, or
a majority of them, unbelieving or even non-religious
persons. Of course, their technical skill was technical,
and their science was scientific. A great deal of every
artist's life, and every other man's, has to do with things
and facts which are secular, and not religious. If you
want to learn art, you must study technical and natural
facts ; if you want to be a good critic, you must study
history, literature, and technics ; and they are not found
in the Bible. Yet you cannot separate religion from
the two former, and, if you be a Christian man, these
studies will assuredly tell you of Christ.

But what account can be given of Sandro Botticelli,
without mention of his picture of the Nativity, and his
being a Piagnone, or follower of Savonarola ? Would
he have painted that picture, or done it so well, if he
had been one of the Compagnacci, or Evil Companions,
or Mohocks of Florence? Buonarotti, Bellini, Holbein,
Diirer, Bacon, Milton, — if religion be nothing, it was
nothing to them ; if it be false, it was an element of
falsehood in them : and on those suppositions only can
you leave their faith out of account when you think
about them. So, if you are to have an account of the
Renaissance without Holbein, and an account of Hol-
bein without the Reformation, why, both your accounts
will be eminently imperfect.

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On this matter, I think it should be observed, that the
function of a critic differs greatly from that of an artist.
I think, certainly, that a man who writes a book to
weaken the hold which others have on their creed, or
lessen the restraint which the laws of chastity exercise
over other men, is guilty of sin, and does a bad deed :
he need not have chosen such a subject or manner. But,
supposing his work, to have qualities which cannot be
passed over, you cannot blame his critics for giving
account of him. They can but say what they find in
him : the only question for them is, Shall they examine
him at all ? £ Aucassin and Nicolette ' is a Provencal
tale of the twelfth century, and if it be really of that
date, of which Mr. Pater appears convinced, there is
nothing to say against him for writing a charming
essay upon it. The little hero's quaint outburst about
not wanting to go to heaven is a curious repetition
or parallel of a story in Gibbon, which Kingsley
makes use of in describing old Wulfs refusal of
baptism, in ' Hypatia.' Aucassin declares that he would
much rather go to hell, because all the nice persons and
things he knows — warriors, clerks, maidens, gold, jewels,
1 vair et gris ' — go there, and Nicolette will go with him
too. Gibbon's tale is somewhat less silly, at all events.
Let Canon Kingsley tell the story of Wulf the Lombard-
Goth : ' The old warrior was stepping into the font, when
he turned suddenly to the bishop, and asked where were
the souls of his heathen ancestors. ' In hell,' answered
the worthy prelate. Wulf drew back from the font, and
threw his bear-skin cloak around him : he preferred, he
said, if Adolph had no objection, to go to his own
people.' No doubt, as Mr. Pater says, sentiment in
Provence appealed to but a small circle of cognoscenti ;
and their ideas were Antinomian. Scott tells us, in

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( Anne of Geierstein,' that the Provencal tone of morality
was lax. I suspect that good knights and true
ladies called this by worse names than Antinomianism
at the time, in less privileged lands. The lay of
Thiebault, the troubadour, about the lady who ate
her paramour, or some portion of him, thoroughly
scandalizes Arthur, the young English knight, in
'Anne of Geierstein.' Corruption is corruption in all
ages : it is not peculiar to the Renaissance or to Pro-
vence ; but this Antinomian literature belongs to the
decadence of mediaeval life, rather than to the revival of
accurate scholarship, and skilful painting from Nature.
At all times, passionate and unhappy people have been
Antinomian, let us call it. That the south of France
has had so much of this quality may account for the
insignificance of the south of France in French history.
But the Romaunt of ' Aucassin and Nicolette ' is harm-
less, as far as its immorality goes, because no im-
morality is really intended by the author or authors.

And we do not find, either, when we consider the
scientific part of the renascence, that it was specially
irreligious, or an element of irreligion. It was a new
method of inquiry into truth ; and, in so far as the faith
is true, the results of the new inquiries could not but
agree with it. This the inquirers of that day felt, and,
for the most part, submitted to and accepted it, though
this age is apt to think that they ought to have rushed
at the conclusions of the French Encyclopedic Men in
that day could be real inquirers, and suspend negative
conclusions, instead of anticipating them. Like St.
Thomas, not knowing how to believe, they still re-
mained with the brethren. And I really think Mr.
Pater is simply right, when he says that it is the part of
the aesthetic critic, and of all of us, I suppose, when we

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admire a thing, to consider this alone concerning it, —
what pleasure, of what kind and derivation, we are get-
ting from it. He who is honest and keen with himself
on this matter, if he make a bad choice, will, at least,
have to own it to himself, and be led to examine what
there is in himself which makes this or that, which
others are perhaps ashamed of, pleasant to him. Mr.
Pater does not mean that mere immediate gratification
is the end of art or of life, but that the critic must speak
with clearness and sincerity from his own interior, and
distinguish what the true charm, to him, of this or that
beautiful sight, sound, or thought, may be. The word
£ pleasure ' has too often unpleasant associations ; and I
hardly think it can apply to the emotions caused by the
Duke Lorenzo (Michael Angelo's greatest work) in the
mind of a spectator competent to admire it. But I
think Mr. Pater means, that every critic must be accu-
rate and faithful in his analysis of what it is in a work of
art which pleases him. If we all were so, there would
be fewer to look at immoral work : they would have to
own to themselves why they liked it ; and there would
be less self-delusion, and fewer vain attempts to cheat
the Devil.

In any case, the Reformation is a part of the Renais-
sance ; and, in any case, the Reformation was a religious
movement ; and Holbein's art was one of its motive-
powers. You have heard of his great polemical wood-
cuts of ' The Indulgence-Mongers,' and ' Christ the True
Light.' The latter is the German protest against the
Aristotelian philosophy which governed the doctors,
who governed the pope, who governed the world.
Schoolmen have taken the place of Scripture, and Ger-
many calls for the written word. The Pardon-shop is
the practical protest that there is personal repentance

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of the man towards God, and that that is of avail. It
is more necessary than ever, in these days, to be careful
of the word ' Protestantism.' There is the Protestant-
ism of personal religion, and of personal irreligion ; of
faith in Christ, and denial of Christ and of God. The
former is the older meaning of the word, and the only
one which I can recognize ; and in this woodcut Hol-
bein preached it to all Germany and all mankind.
The cardinals and friars are selling God's forgiveness
of sins to those who can pay for it. and denying it to
those who cannot. The sting of the picture is not, that
the rich sinner is fined, or that the monk gets the
money, but that the beggar entreats the priesthood to
consider his bodily misery, and let God have mercy on
his soul, and can get no mercy because he has no
money. Holbein and Luther, if the hand of the former
did not fail him in Luther's portrait, were physically
like each other : both seem to have been men who
would be glad enough of a rich man's admission into
heaven ; but that a poor man should be shut out for not
being rich was a notion they could not bear.

Let us have a slight sketch of Holbein's life, as repre-
sentative artist of the Northern Renaissance. It extends
from 1495 or 1498 to 1543, when he died in London,
of the plague. He is a portrait-painter, the son of a
portrait-painter, digressing into metal-work ; not trained
as a goldsmith, like Verrochio, or Diirer, or Lionardo,
or Ghirlandajo. He learns character and expression
from knights and ladies and burghers of Augsburg and
of Ulm. He went to England first in 1527, — the year
before Diirer died ; and Florence made her last effort
for liberty, with Michael Angelo for her chief engineer.
Garret and Clarke, and the poor ' Christian brothers '
from Cambridge, were in great danger of their lives

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about that time in Oxford. This is what Holbein had
done up to this time, — portraits innumerable, notably
that of Erasmus ; the Praise of Folly, and the great
polemical woodcuts ; he had illustrated a Bible mar-
vellously, and done grand Old Testament wall-paintings
at Basel : had painted or restored the Dance of Death
(or one of them) on the cathedral cloister at Basel ; and
had issued his woodcut version of it, whereof more. In
1529 he returns to Basel to find bitter fruit of the Re-
formation. That was the great and grievous year of
German Iconoclasm ; when all the churches were strip-
ped, not only of idolatry, but of beauty and the precious
records of seven hundred years. He saw what he saw,
and returned to England in 1532, only to leave it before
his death for a short visit to Brussels and the Low
Countries. James V died of Solway Moss in 1542 ; and
Holbein died of the plague in London next year. He
is the great realist of the renascence, the first master of
Northern Cinque-Cento ; his is the greatest Northern
realist imagination in sacred history and allegory : he is
master of grotesque, and prince of portraiture : the world
has few greater names. And as the Dance of Death
in woodcut is the work by which he is most generally
known, and which, perhaps, contains most of his soul,
we will speak of it now.

Most of us have read the third volume of the ' Stones
of Venice,' and from that formed an idea of the way in
which Renaissance sculptors treated the subject of
death. There had been in Venice a system of sepul-
chral ornament, expressive of Christian hope in the
simplest way. Its arrangement was this in the fifteenth
century, — a sarcophagus with canopy above ; on the
canopy a small figure of the knight as he rode in arms,
under it a full-sized statue of him as he lay dead. He

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is dead ; but he had valour and worth, and they and he
are Christ's : that is all the sculptor says. This treat-
ment is derived straight from the Catacombs, where the
larger tombs are formed by the hollowed-out arcosolium,
or half apse above the sarcophagus, or flat-topped tomb,
on which celebration of Holy Communion may take
place, if the tenant be a martyr. This had given place,
by this time, to heaven knows what pompous paganisms
in Venice, described in the volume above-mentioned.
They expressed no Christian hope, and symbolized no
Christian doctrine ; they betrayed a threefold vanity of
state, money, and science ; they and their degenerate
imitations in this country are the very petrifaction of
undertaking. The overpowering fun of Charles Dickens
prevents our understanding his intense irony. Do you
remember Mr. Mould descanting on what wealth can
really do to console a man in the presence of death?
' It can give him the plumage of the ostrich ; it can give
him any number of mutes carrying batons tipped with
brass,' &c. This marks the decadence of art and
religion together : the costly tomb, cut with contemp-
tible skill, takes the place of all other consolation in
death. It really is just like Mr. Bumble's notion of the
gentleman in the white waistcoat, who went to heaven
in an oak coffin with plated handles. The principle is
just the same : he is well who is well buried.

Against all this, the rough German breaks in with his
first moral of the great equality of death. O just,
mighty, subtle, and searching one! welcome to the
weary, the brave, and the faithful, to all who will fear
God, and consider the end. It is this contented, open-
eyed acceptance of the well-understood terrors and
victory of the last enemy that is the brighter side of the
Dance of Death. Holbein's mind is that of the North,

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both grave and reckless, excited by the sight of so great
a thing as death. For the just, there is salvation ; but
there is a great shock to bear, and a dark way to go
first. They know what is beyond ; but they know it as
in a glass, darkly, by symbol and figure, and they do
not know what it is like. They are represented in the
great frontispiece of the Judgment, rejoicing before God,
and they only. ' If you must fear,' quoth the painter,
' fear not too much : this cup passes not from us without
drinking. Death has his day and his victory, then
cometh the end.' But then, again, he turns on the
luxurious and careless, and yet more fiercely on the
false and cruel : ' The Lord hath seen that your day is
coming. Are you beautiful?' says the Spectre, who is
no respecter ; ' woe to you if you care for nothing but
your beauty : lean arms shall clasp it like a bride's.
Are you eloquent ? look you be faithful and true in
words ; for I am with you, Death, the unquestionable,
the sincerest thing on earth ; come with me, and beware
of the lie in your right hand. Are you kingly or noble ?
Such as you do cruel oppression from London to By-
zantium, and elsewhere ; come with me, and reap as you
have sown. Are you rich ? Come straightway, and we
will see how you got your money, and what you have
done with it.' The call of death is harsh and heavy to
all ; but since he comes to all equally, and One has
overcome him for us, anyhow, it is madness to forget
him. Holbein's mood is not that of democratic envy.
The poor are as frightened as the rich ; the little child is
led away weeping ; and the women stay behind refusing
to be comforted ; the poor peddler has the greatest
objection to be parted from his heavy pack ; the fool
makes foolish resistance to the assailant who violates his
privileges, just as the old noble, the edel Degen, or good

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sword of many combats, does fierce battle once more,
not for life, but because it is his way. ' Each dies in his
vocation ; but for all this,' saith Holbein, ' there re-
maineth a rest for the people of God.' And he rightly
refuses to set forth anything else in the Last Day,
except their joy. This is the difference between dif-
ferent men's views of death in the Renaissance. One
view is not religious, the other is roughly so ; one has
produced the later Renaissance tombs, which seem to
me monstrous ; the other, the Dance of Death, which
seems to me grand. But if we are asked according to
(what I hold to be) the wrong interpretation of Mr.
Pater's canon of criticism ; or if we are to ask ourselves
what kind of pleasure we get from the Dance of Death,
from the pictures of the Passion, from Michael Angelo's
Thought of the Duke Lorenzo (or rather, Giuliano), —
I think we must say, we do not and ought not to get
any. The school called the Noble Grotesque requires
some other word than pleasure to express the emotions
obtained from its great works.

Let us recapitulate a little. The revival of art began
when men began to study, not Nature only, nor Greek
models only, but Nature as Greeks had studied her
before. Then along with art revived the study of law,
twelfth century, the school-philosophy of the thirteenth,
the poetry of the fourteenth ; and the fifteenth and part
of the sixteenth see their maturity and great glory.
With all this revival comes that of Greek literature,
which is the motive-power of the Reformation ; and in
the sixteenth century we have physical science, properly
so called, and the modern processes of inquiry into
natural facts. There is a new spirit of fresh seeking,
new thought, new appeal to Nature. It is religion in
men who hold the faith earnestly ; in others, it is simply

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desire of fresh knowledge. In many painters, it is thirst
for beauty only ; and art, strangely, first debauches, then
withers in their hands. In men of science, it is simply
determination to turn the light of their reason faithfully
on their study, and prove all things. Men rose up and
said, We, and a number of things in which we will have
truth, if God will, are not rightly explained by the
Aristotelian categories. We will have new arrangements
for new phenomena. Let us look at facts, — at the facts
of antiquity and present nature, at the Greek language,
and its literature and art, and at what God has given us
to know on earth of earth. In an evil hour, theology
was set, for base worldly reasons, against all this ; and
the quarrel has never been healed. But men are begin-
ning to see that theology and science, as things of the
many-sided mind, have their mutual limits; and their
dispute is fast settling, I trust, into a general boundary
question, so far adjusted, by this time, that rival pro-
fessors will admit that physical experiment and spiritual
experience are, after all, both real things ; and, when that
is granted, firm ground is reached.

For ourselves, the Greeks studied Nature faithfully :
so let us do what they did, not only copying them, but
imitating them. The real hope of English art now is
the pure love of nature, observation, and imitation.
Labour on that, and imaginative power will follow or
be given you, and the spirit of wisdom and invention
will be new born in you. We have models enough, and
systematic teaching enough ; we have learnt enough
about learning ; we have copies of pictures, and books
about books : but nothing will help art, and the people
through art, so much now as honest drawing of landscape
and portrait. Let everybody try, with such teaching as
he can get, to draw the scene or the person he loves best.

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That is art, however simple, the symbolic expression of
our delight in some work of God which He has given us
to be delighted with.

We have distinguished, and partly classified, the
periods of the Renaissance. For its great artists, it
will be found better, in order to have a connected
memory of how they come, to take them in groups,
ticketing each group with the name of its greatest men.
Thus you have the cathedral of Pisa, built by Buschetto,
with Byzantine decorations in the eleventh and twelfth
centuries. Niccola begins the Greek Renaissance in the
thirteenth. You begin the fourteenth with the Arnolfo-
Dante-Giotto-Orcagna group ; and Van Eyck, the ultra-
montane. Brunelleschi, Angelico, Masaccio, begin the
fifteenth. Botticelli's life is contained in it ; and it ends
with Angelo, Rafael, Columbus, Diirer, Holbein, and
Bellini in Venice. Then art migrates to the Lagunes.
Remember Tintoret was Titian's pupil, and was born
the year before Flodden 15 12, and Veronese died in
the Armada year 1588. In the Flodden year, moreover,
Diirer published the Knight and Death ; and Rafael
finished the Camera della Segnatura in the Vatican.
Two years before (1510) he, Michael Angelo, and Luther
had been in Rome together. Velasquez was born eleven
years later; and Hogarth a hundred and two years
after that. Blake may have seen Hogarth, Turner must
have seen Blake. Reynolds was thirty years younger
than Hogarth. It is a rough kind of chart, but may be
useful.

For the architectural periods of the Renaissance, we
took up with Dr. Liibkes division, — Early Renaissance,
High Renaissance, and Baroque Renaissance ; take with
these the names of Brunelleschi and Bramante ; and, for
the third, whoever you please. Agostino Busti is named

9«

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in the architectural article which we began with. With
these periods we compared those of Venetian architec-
ture as given by Prof. Ruskin, — Byzantine Renaissance,
Roman, and Grotesque. They answer exactly to each
other, only that in Venice, men so able as Sanmicheli
and Sansovino rightly adhered to the round arch, and
their work retains much grandeur and beauty.

Then we said the Renaissance was not to be called
a religious or irreligious movement, because movements
are not religious or irreligious things. Men are ; and all
through the ages, from Nicolas of Pisa to Ruskin of
Oxford, their contest between faith, doubt, and denial,
has gone on — with what fortune who knoweth save God
only ? This much seemed certain, that in Italy, at the
time of the Reformation, which marks the High Renais-
sance period, the representatives of the Christian faith
seemed to need great reformation ; and, as they were
able to tread it out on their side the Alps, the pursuit of
knowledge and art took a less religious form there.

North of the Alps, the Renaissance means the Reforma-
tion ; that is to say, a distressing struggle on matters of
faith. For the scientific or modern method of inquiry into
truth it is religious or irreligious exactly according to the
character of every individual person who pursues it. We
chose Holbein as our representative artist for the Reforma-
tion period, as its greatest workman, an adopted English-
man, and the author of the Dance of Death, which has
an archaeological connection, through Orcagna's Triumph
of Death in the Campo Santo at Pisa, with the mosaic
work of the early, almost the Primitive Church. But this
is a matter which requires a whole course of lectures to
itself.

Yet it is a part of the history of the art renaissance
to consider how we ourselves, in our disputes between

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Gothicism and classicalism, have lost sight of the real
continuity of art history. One man is given to the pro-
motion of German or French Gothic architecture : he
cannot bear to think of the instructions or the traditions
of art, as they were first communicated, by Byzantium
or by Italy, to the ancestors of West Franks and East
Franks alike. Another is devoted to modern utilities, —
porticos, pediments, proportions, and square windows:
he wants Capitols and Parthenons to look at, and Gower
Street and Baker Street to live in. Both alike lose
sight of the fact that Greece studied Nature in men and
animals, and, ornamenting her architecture from that
source of beauty, made it the world's example to this
day ; and that the great merit of Roman architecture
has been to observe and preserve Greek beauty with her
own constructive power. Both forget that all that was
right or beautiful in either comes from the delighted
study of God's work, which we call Nature.

Again : the continuity of art history is lost sight of on
the Christian side. We keep contending for Gothic
architecture as ecclesiastical, and forget that it is also
domestic, and that, in mediaeval times, people lived in
mediaeval houses. We forget, also, that, in primitive
Christian days of the Roman empire, people lived in
Roman houses with Graeco-Roman ornament. There
was no Gothic in the early Church, and no Byzantine
even for at least four hundred years of the Church.
The earliest works of Christian art, alike in painting and
in sculpture, are simply Graeco-Roman. The martyrs
and confessors of the first days seem gladly to have
accepted the aid of heathen workmen in the decoration
of their tombs and retired places of worship, and to have
been willing enough to have ordinary subjects for orna-
ment upon their walls, if they could only refer to them

H %

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in their own minds as Christian symbols with Christian
meaning. Hence the constant use of the vine. It was,
of course, a common subject for Gentile decoration ; and
it attracted no special notice from the Gentile : to the
Christian it was the Vine of souls, the Lord's chosen
emblem of Himself. Scenes of pastoral life delighted
the middle-class Romans : the Christians would have
such scenes, also, painted in their catacombs, if one
figure bearing the sheep that is lost, the Shepherd of
souls, would stand for them at the centres of their vault-
ings, expressing silently the Lord's other parable of
Himself. They used the myths of Hesione and Andro-
meda, substituting Jonah. Noah took the place of
Deucalion on some of their walls. They seem, indeed,
to have desired to Christianize such myths as these, and
especially that of Orpheus, partly for the sake of in-
dulging hope concerning their Gentile ancestors. If
these tales were foreshadowings of the kingdom of God,
then these our fathers may not have been far from- the
kingdom. Then for the original and scriptural subjects
of Christian ornament, which ought to have been faith-
fully and jealously handed down to us from the second
century, tradition and legend have obscured them, and
the Renaissance has thrown utter oblivion over them.
The subjects of church-decoration, symbolic or historical,
were once both strictly and amply defined. Scriptural
emblem and scriptural history were thought to give wide
enough range for the painter or sculptor : all his mind
and skill were to be given to show how the law and
the prophets alike testified to the fulfilled and com-
pleted faith. The earliest cycle of ornament, in the
Catacombs, is called the Ciclo Biblico by the Com-
mendatore De Rossi, our leading Italian authority.
It is not too much to say that there is a tradition of

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101

Christian teaching by painting and sculpture, illustrative
of Holy Scripture, which begins with the catacomb
frescoes and sarcophagi, and is carried on in the great
mosaics of Rome, and more particularly those of Ra-
venna. It consists in scriptural records of the Old and
New Testament, of prophecies of our Lord and their
fulfilment : it continues, in one shape or another, till
Holbein ; and with him it ends. It all but perished in
the ninth century, except for the MSS. which still con-
tinued to be produced (or perhaps only preserved) in the
scriptoria of such monasteries as escaped destruction by
Goth or Lombard, and in the new Rome. But, before
this, the iconoclasm of the eighth century drove the
artists of Byzantium, with many of their most precious
works and relics, by sheer unreasoning, undistinguishing
persecution, westwards and northwards. The embers of
art, in short, were cherished in the monasteries till the
great Teutonic migration had fairly settled in the re-
distributed provinces of the empire. They were pre-
served ; but they were mingled with legend ; and their
centre is not the Lord's life on earth so much as His
passion and death. Yet the picture-teaching of scrip-
tural history was continued in Florence and Venice, and
in many French and German temples, till at last, with
the Reformation, the Arts were made to break with the
Faith. The senseless splendour of the decadent renais-
sance took the place of the passion and thought of
the Italian-Gothic revival ; and Puritanism cast out
form, colour, and imagination from all sincere religion
in the north of Europe.

What the new mediaeval renaissance of our own day
may bring forth, we know not : it seems, at present,
more zealous of the minor matters of the laws of deco-
rative beauty than of the greater, more anxious about

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robes than frescoes, and addicted to ceremonial rather
than sculpture. It seems, too, to have provoked an
architectural reaction, of which the new public buildings
opposite Whitehall are a really grand result. But for
Church work, until history be followed back to the
original examples and documents of the primitive faith,
it seems to stand to reason that nothing like primitive
decoration can ever be had ; still its subjects are ascer-
tainable and ascertained ; and perhaps the truest renais-
sance of all, for us, will be the return of English painters
to sacred work in sacred places, on the subjects of
primitive days.

The great work of Mr. Holman Hunt is now open
to the public, uniting in itself the two ideals of the
form of our Lord, which have been preserved in the
Christian mind from the third century. He is spoken
of as the fairest of all men, also as possessing no
form or comeliness in the ascetic sense ; and the
painters great skill and singular happiness in the
selection of his model have enabled him, in a great
degree, to combine the ascetic and the beautiful ideal.
The renascence of the highest and most spiritual, as
well as the most powerful forms of art, is not to be
despaired of in the nation, or at the time, which has
produced such a picture as this.

CHAPTER VI.

IT was a warm late October morning at Hawkstone :
the tergiversations of an English autumn were
going on as usual ; and a southerly wind and a cloudy-
sky had succeeded a few days' slight frost. Leaves
were snowing down in the park ; and the pale green
turf was beginning to be varied with yellow and red
where they had drifted ; while russet and gold gained
on the autumn green above.

Let us ' do this gentleman's seat on our way,' as
Moore says. Hawkstone Holt near Bristlebury, then,
was a fair type of the midland or northern house and
park, of the second or third order of size. The Latter-
math family had enjoyed one great privilege from father
to son in successive generations, — they never overbuilt
themselves. The old house was not very old ; and the
family conviction always was, that it was big enough,
and, moreover, that it was good taste to keep one's
house within one's rents, rather than beyond them. It
is surprising, if one happens to know any thing of a
county, to think what havoc is wrought by architects
and builders in the ranks of the Squirearchy. The
bills are not the worst, though they are what they
are : the really fatal thing is the infallible certainty,

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

that, when you have built a habitation a little above
your fortune, you will proceed to live in it a great
deal beyond your income. But we are concerned with
some small part of what the knight and lady of Hawk-
stone did, not with any thing they didn't do.

This morning, like other people, they came down to
breakfast. The ways of the house were punctual ; but
breakfast was kept for late-comers up to any date, and
you could have it in your room, if you liked ; but
nobody ever did. Even foreign visitors liked to come
down by nine, and join in the endless chatter and
goings-on of that big breakfast -table. There were
prayers early, in the hall, which was on the Yorkshire
principle, — large, low, and in the middle of the house.
It was divided from the front-door by a great porch,
— a hall in itself, — dedicated to sticks, great -coats,
umbrellas, and all odoriferous water-proofs, with some
lemon verbenas and cape-jessamines to maintain a
balance of scents. This was mostly plate-glass : within
the hall all was black oak, portraits, furs, antlers, Persian
rugs, armour, curiosities, two or three pet breech-loaders
in a glass case, books, newspapers, and infinite stationery.
Flora did most of her vast letter-writing here. She said
it was no use shutting herself up with a dictionary, or
retiring at all : people were so sure to come after her,
that she preferred being ready for people. Nothing ever
seemed to interrupt her. She was young, and keen on
her leading idea always, so as to be able to ' throw her
tongue' whenever she liked, without losing it, — such was
the expression of her admiring husband. At all events,
Lady Lattermath could and did talk and write with
considerable piquancy on two subjects at once, or in
the rapidest succession.

Well, her rooms were on one side of the hall, as we

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 105

said, — on the west side of the house ; and she had a
conservatory, which worked round the corner to the
drawing-room on the south, and so on to the dining-
room. Jack had a large study, dressing-room, and bed-
room on the other side of the front-door, — of course
I don't mean the outside — and his private department
ended in a sort of gun-room, studio, workshop, and
smoking-room, with a lathe, a small forge, and a large
adjacent billiard-room. He hated all games on the
cards, and never would have any thing at Hawkstone
except whist, at decent hours, if he could help it ; and
this he was generally quite able to do. When they
danced, it was in the hall or the large library; where there
was an oak floor, and every thing ran on noiseless castors.
All the rooms were large, and rather low : drawing-room
white, pale turquoise, and paler crimson, with much dead
gold to relieve the old oak; Eastern water-colours; a
John Lewis and a Holman Hunt, the pride of that realist
household ; Cairene sketches by Charley, and some by
Walton in the Sinai Desert ; one or two snow-scenes, for
contrast ; altogether the room had interest and breadth
of effect. Flora avoided bric-a-brac, and liked pictures,
even beyond decorative unity. One of the ideas she had
gathered unawares, from the perfectly unconscious May,
was to go in for ornament with definite meaning. She
would have facts, she said ; and they must be facts of a
high order, if possible ; and the consequence was, that
Jack and she, with May and Charles, were all grievously
suspected of sentiment and imagination, and all sorts of
things, which they were wise enough to repudiate in
general terms. They maintained relations with the
Intellectual World. ' Bore on, I will endure,' was Flora's
impertinent quotation about its organs. Unsoiled copies
of the ' Chanticleer' and the £ Scholasticus ' always lay on

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the table for those who liked them ; but they enjoyed
more rest in the household than they allowed to the
remainder of society.

The Hawkstone dining-room was oak, dark green and
gold, — long, low oak mirrors, big table and sideboard of
the same, an old Greek marble relief of a chariot-race
let into the wall, a Vandyke, two Sir Joshuas, a dis-
puted Holbein, an undoubted Gainsborough, and a
Jordaens, which held its own with them all. It
was a Sir Roland Lattermath, who had served in
Holland, — black-gray armour with gold studs, and an
orange scarf, painted as by a Dutchman with a taste for
colour ; gold sword-hilt, belt and dagger, with wonderful
gleams on a dark-green background. Ceiling painted
in gray, and pale crimson-tinged clouds, with birds
flying up into the bed-rooms in perspective. I don't
know how many bed-rooms there were in the house.
The children used to be audible now and then in far
distance, and servants always liked going there : so I
suppose there were plenty. The chief part of Jack's
building had consisted in alterations in the upper
regions, for the comfort and good regulation of men and
maids. He did not say much to his people ; but he
cared for them, and they knew it, and they either
vanished from his service rather early, or ' hung up their
hats ' in their several departments. For stables and
kennel, they were kept down strenuously as to scale ;
but men, horses, and dogs knew their very sufficient
work, and did it. Hard days and good living were their
rule of existence, and holidays were not few. There was a
servants' library. The house was open all the year ; and
the children were healthy and pretty, and well taught in
gentle manners from the cradle. Jack's bite was worse
than his bark ; for he never barked at all. He was as

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much master as he cared to be : in fact, he liked his
people, and they liked him.

The ' public ' rooms faced the large rough park, pur-
posely kept rough, to suit the weather-stained walls,
which were the chief outer attraction of the plainly-
built Holt. It was a sort of Elizabethan concern, with
no architectural pretensions except bay-windows and
stone mullions, and was as compact as a portmanteau,
and very much of the same shape. There was a herd of
deer; and plenty of Highland beasts were always en-
joying a rest before their fate, — ' feeding,' as Flora was
wont to explain to strangers, ' entirely on the thick fogs
which prevail over the north of this island in autumn'
(deep autumn grass always goes by that name in York-
shire). There were broad oaks and beeches, ancient
yews and thorns, and great gnarled Scotch firs, with old
larches, squirrel-haunted. All the house delighted in
squirrels, excepting Diver the retriever, whose privileges
were respected by every other creature, and utterly
denied by the vicious little things. The old dog felt he
did not get the better in his contentions with the active
enemy, and, worse still, felt that he did not carry public
feeling with him. He heard people laugh. One ought
not to laugh at an old dog or horse ; but human nature
can't stand it when an ancient and crafty rough spaniel,
after long pretended unconsciousness under a tree,
makes a grab at a squirrel who incontinently jumps on
his back, pulls off his weather-bleached curls with an
obvious view to his own and family's bedding, sets up
his tail, and chatters loudly to a large party in the
breakfast-room. Susan Milton sat next the window :
she gave a wild screech of delight, and pointed out of it.
Flourish (of spoons and napkins). Alarums. Excursions.
Urn nearly 'shot off' the table. Flora shakes her fist,

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but joins the rush into the great bay. Diver howls for
very shame, and bolts under a tree : squirrel instantly
projects himself on to a low branch, thence to a high
one, where he sits across a spray like a sparrow, and
contemplates existence and Miss Milton, who has a
habit of leaving almonds and raisins in that direction on
his account. Row subsides, and breakfast resumed.

' Well, it's a comfort not to have to go out hunting,'
says Mr. Reresby, Flora's uncle, and one of the
straightest goers in the shires, further making petition
for another large cup of tea.

' You'll have to give it up altogether soon, if you
drink all that small liquor,' said Jack, handing the new
supply.

' Why, aren't we going to walk over the moors to
Hawcliffe school-meeting? and won't that take half a
stone off us at least?'

' Then do have a few more eggs,' cried Flora, with a
gushing air of sympathy, and sending a sort of rack, or
battery, of immense turkey's eggs in the direction of the
Customer — Reresby went by that name in his county.
He was one of the old Holderness breed, not very
young, but much modernized, and little the worse for it
— not unlike one of the big hounds which are supposed
to belong to those parts, and much better bred than he
looked.

'You never read "The Arabian Nights," did you,
Flora?'

'Why not?'

' Because there's a fellow there that gets into trouble
about eating roc's eggs, and you seem to indulge in
them.'

' Oh, Aladdin ! He had an uncle, a conjuror, and I
haven't. And he had dealings with geniuses, and I

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

ICQ.

never see any. Rather impertinent, I'm afraid ; but I
can't help it : you put it right into my hands.'

' Won't be offended this time ; but you really are
terrible this morning.'

'Why, you almost upset my urn, and shattered my
nerves, and cast dastardly imputations on the eggs.'

' No, I'm without fear of them ; and they are without
reproach.'

' How nice it must be on the Nile,' said Susan, with
great earnestness, 'where one can get crocodile's eggs
for breakfast regularly ! Only one must feel very
nervous about the bad ones. Fancy just chipping the
shell for a strong chicken, — they begin to snap directly,
I'm told, — and what a smell of musk!5

' Ah, Miss Milton, you ought to have been with us in
Abyssinia ! — Such ostrich omelette ! What ideas you
all have, to be sure ! '

'Well, you began with the roc's egg — but here come
the letters.'

'An official voice from Tombuie.'

'Tom what?'

'The Yellow Hill, it means; Mr. Hobbes's shooting-
lodge, where Charles is staying.'

'What a jolly long letter!' said the chatelaine.
£ Charley must be getting quite above himself. Doesn't
it make you rather nervous, Susy?'

' Horribly : let's put it off till May comes back this
evening.'

'Where's H.R.H. gone off to?' asked Reresby.

' Oh ! we sent a lot of pheasants to the Rothercliffe
Infirmary, and she went over in charge : she walks the
place quite regularly. The doctors say she is quite of
use. She reads and talks, and is good at work ; and all
the people take their physic better when she's there ;

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

and they say she flirts dreadfully with the old bed-
ridden people ; and the clergy are all after her, of
course ; and her nerve, — you know that, — and then the
sight of her is good for most people,' concluded John,
meditatively.

'In moderation,' said his wife, taking up her gibeciere,
full of keys and letters, and girding it on in a manner
highly becoming her figure. 'Well, we are to have a
quiet autumn day. Any lady what likes to ride or
drive will please give her orders, and lunch at half-past
one.'

Mrs. Reresby, the Customer's wife, who resembled
nobody so much as ' the grave and beautiful damsel,
called Discretion,' in the ' Pilgrim's Progress,' — the one
who conducted that rather business-like conversation
with Christian, before he got into the house Beautiful, —
said she should like a drive after lunch. Susan said she
was very stiff, and her horse wanted rest ; which there is
every reason to suppose he did, much oftener than he
got it ; and it was agreed between her and Flora to go
and begin a study of autumn leaves, somewhere by the
long water at the bottom of the park, — an undertaking
likely to last through several other mornings. Jack and
Reresby were already lighting wooden pipes, and pro-
pitiating Diver on the gravel ride. It was, as it has
been many a century, — latis otia fundis, — quiet times in
big country houses, where folly does not rule. There
was a pretty group about the door, with its lawn-grass
and flower-beds still bright with red geranium : the
heliotropes were done for. Flora always sheltered and
kept up her borders till the last possible day, and then
gave up flowers for the winter : she said chrysanthe-
mums only made her dismal. She stood there, — all in
olive-gray with a dark-green cord and small hat of the

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I 1 1

same, — all broad folds to her feet, not having yet tucked
up her long-tailed gown for the day. She had mastered
the rare art of doing so effectively and becomingly.
Mrs. Reresby was next her, small-headed and grandly-
formed, kind, silent, and simple in spite of forty years
of town and country, enjoying a nice passive holiday of
utter rest, as all women do who have headed a large
household for twenty years. Little Susan was showing
her her sketch-book : her red and gold hair was drawn
into a large, hard, unchignon'd crown ; her willowy neck
kept moving soft and quick as she held her head down
somewhat before the older lady, giving short, pithy
answers with a little air of deference. Fine as a fay,
rather deficient in height, though nobly formed, full of
nervous intense life, passionate and tender-hearted, timid
and daring, outspoken to her own confusion, well-trained,
and needing every bit of her training : she was a person,
who, as Charles said, and Hobbes thought, interested
one in a manner beyond her size. She possessed a
step-mother who was really fond of her, not without
reason or return. But one of them was rather high-
church, and the other rather low-church ; and the Fates
themselves would fall out, if they read religious news-
papers on opposite sides.

Well, Susan was pretty enough ; but just opposite
her, by way of contrast, was the great Reresby in
knickerbockers and leggings, with a hairless face all
burnt to one clear dark red, a cavalry mustache, fair
and heavy, showing the form of his thin well-arched lips.
(I am afraid to use the word 'chiselled,' Professor
Arnold was so angry about it. I suppose, when the
word is let into the language again, it will be allowed to
mean statuesque, or well cut, and to be applicable to a
finely-shaped mouth.) Anyhow, Reresby was looking

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his best, for the three women before him were all
pleasant to him, and his wife most of all. But his
general impression was one of considerable hardness ;
and his equestrian exploits, and a certain severity in the
pursuit of all that he considered humbug, went far to
sustain it. He liked Charles decidedly as a clever,
honourable lad, who rode to hounds very well, and was
smart and popular as a yeomanry officer ; but without
that, I fear he would have scouted him altogether for
taking to pictures : that might do for little Susan, whom
he admired, as most long men do short girls ; but how
anybody who could dig was not ashamed to draw passed
his comprehension. Jack was all in light gray, extra-
bleached with rain ; his countenance much darker than
his dress ; with big black whiskers, and eyes which
twinkled now and then as he played with Diver and the
children. The last-mentioned we do not describe, as it
is laid down by German sestheticians, that children
possess no beauty, and are not legitimate objects of art ;
and we have no time to discuss that astounding state-
ment just at present.

What a thing a fine autumn day is in the Midlands or
North Country, whenever you are within reach of moors,
and manufactures are far enough off to let the leaves
and grass bear their right colours ! Dewdrops leave a
black smear in the neighbourhood of Halifax, to my
experience ; and I remember once in Tivydale, well out
of sight of chimneys, that one quite fine day's shooting
in cover spoilt me a new jacket. But here they were
clear of smoke and soot, and the commercial elements in
general : one cannot be unaware of their value ; but they
will not come into pictures (always excepting some of
Turner's grand night-infernos of forge and foundery).
Here there was a silvery mist, which had risen with the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 113

chill of early morning, and was now melting and flicker-
ing away as the sun gained power : it softened all out-
lines, made every thing look restful and grand, and kept
the distance massive and broad, and blue as sapphire,
particularly over the high moors, which were just visible
from where they stood, looking far down the long wide
dale. It was full of great oaks, growing over iron and
coal beds as yet happily undisturbed, and lessening in
number as small fields gave way to wide enclosures, and
corn and roots gained on the pastures. Sir John Latter-
math was an easy-going man, who laughed a good
deal ; but he had a very strong sense of duty and a
clear head ; so that he always went ahead easily in the
same direction, and had his way, as a quiet river has
its way. All through his ground you saw better build-
ings, cleaner fields, smaller fences, and less hedgerow
timber. He went in hard for improvement of land, and
all that grows on it, — labourers first, — and chose and
humoured his tenants accordingly. ' Clean, drain, muck,
high wage, and hard work,' were his brief agricultural
code, — all he would say, sometimes, at a farmers' dinner.
He gave his tenants the rabbits and hares he preserved,
at their request, because it helped them to keep off tres-
passers ; but he never battue'd or butchered. He had
schools and libraries, and co-operative stores ; he backed
every working parson within reach, and gave the boys
and girls enormous treats without distinction of de-
nomination. He was not in parliament : Hobbes re-
presented him quite well enough, and was often ready
to quote his authority. In short, he was a crack country
gentleman, — a class of men which possesses the
quality of dying hard, at least as a class. Threatened
men are said to live long ; and they are a good deal
threatened.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Flora and Susan put on all manner of wraps, and
walked along the path by the water, at the bottom of
the park, looking for nice vistas and calm reflections.
Coots and moor-hens would hardly move for them ;
rabbits stood at attention on their hind-legs as they
passed ; a pet doe came trotting up for some bread ;
and the unanimous rookery gave a loud cheer as the
pair passed below. Lastly, there was a hollow sound of
hoofs on the old turf; and a great, long, brown mare
came up at a gallop, with mane and tail erect ; passed
them, fell into a trot, and turned round ; whinnied and
wouldn't come any nearer ; turned away, and round
again ; finally came close up, putting her soft tan nose
into Flora's hand, and consented to have it stroked, with
an expression which seemed to say, ' Somehow you're
not the one I mean ; but you will do.'

'Why, old Catty!'

Catty was short for Catapult ; and this was ' May's
old one,' so called by all her friends, just going to
begin perhaps a fourteenth attempt or so at hunting
condition. Nobody quite knew how old she was.
May would only say that the sum of her years
and her mare's amounted to three figures ; which
seemed open to dispute on arithmetical and physio-
logical grounds. She was called Catty ; and the other
— Mariquita, a little bay with black points — was called
Kitty. Shortening names is a terrible habit : I don't
know whether women or young men do it worst. There
was a bear in Ch. Ch., in my time, whom Frank Hart-
land, his proprietor, insisted on calling Tignath Pelezer,
for no other reason than that, in the very unlikely event
of the bear's ever learning to answer to any name, it
would cut down so admirably into Tig. But that was
nothing to the Merton men : they always called their

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115

stroke - oar Tom Bolton ; his Christian name being
Charles. People asked why, and never got any answer,
except, ' Of course ; don't you see ? His brother's name
was Bob.' Anyhow, for the purposes of my tale, the
horses got to know themselves by their abbreviations ;
and so it came right, generally.

Catty's affections soon betrayed her into the hands of
two or three stablemen, who led her off to clipping and
singeing, fresh box and paddock new. Susan put up a
gentle, though, as she said, perhaps a rather impudent
petition, to be allowed to give her her gallops now and
then ; and Flora only deigned to answer, that, the
sooner May came home to sit upon some young ladies,
the better. Then they came on just the spot for a
woodland and water drawing. There are a thousand
such, accessible to all the sketching world, in old parks
all over England ; and the question arises, Where will
dwellers in towns go for subjects, when they have turned
the parks into building-lots? as the first proceeding of
builders is invariably to cut down every green tree, like
Jewish reformers. Echo answers, as usual, that she don't
know: meanwhile the woods and waters will last our time.

Flora and Susan sat down near the water's edge, in a
place where they got a foreground perspective of big
stones along the bank, leading into their proposed picture.
The ground was all covered with the greenest autumnal
moss and red whinstone, with patches of fine gravel here
and there. Great beeches spread hands all round, fringed
with scarlet and orange, yet massively green : now and
then they admitted a glint of mild sunshine ; but,
generally speaking, there were soft, mottled clouds,
which prevented that additional complication. The pool
was one brown unbroken mirror, though a tolerably quick
stream ran through it from the moors. It was the last

I 2

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

of a series ; and its outlet was closed by a strong dam,
with a streak of orange gravel walk on its top, backed
by great trunks and heavy foliage. Big trout moved
occasionally, as if on purpose to make nice long lazy
ripples. All round it, except for a break of sky through
large trunks at the lower end, stone met stone in reflec-
tion, and gnarled roots twisted on to infinity, and the
water-flag bent over her own image, and one stratum of
boughs below another led where height met depth in the
little mere. All was red and green on varied olive ; and
all the lines seemed to radiate from it as a centre : so
the sketchers recognized the great advantage of having
a picture ready composed to their hands. This is one
reason why advanced students of landscape should
always look for subjects among calm waters and clear
reflections, — first, that in such places Nature gives them
a lesson, not only in form and colour, but in that uncon-
scious faculty of arrangement and selection which makes
up or composes a picture out of Nature. You can't put
in every thing : you must take a little, and leave much ;
and reflections are well-marked characteristics, which
are sure to assist you in your choice. Secondly,
nothing calls for or rewards faithful diligence and
patience so much as this kind of subject. You have
to do every thing twice, and are comforted for it by
seeing your work get better for every right touch you
put on.

'How am I to begin this, dear?' asked Susan.

' Take the boat-house first : that yellowish thatch and
green moss come very nicely in the water, and the tarred
sides ; and their reflections are capital. Draw them in
first, towards the middle of your paper, not right in the
middle. Make its size about one-sixth of your picture,
height and length. Yes, that'll do ; now measure by

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

117

that one-sixth, as if you were drawing a cast by head-
lengths, and see how much you can get in. Not room
for much sky, but quite enough. Make it very gray
when you put it in, no white or blue, and no sunshine in
your picture, there is so much variety already. Now
draw in those branches that are drooping down near us
on the right, and reach down to the boat-house, only
main outlines in right proportion up to the edge of your
picture. There are some others opposite, like them ;
just put in their ends. There ! that frames your picture
in radiating lines. Now the water-lines, now those
reflections of the farther-off trees, that come in so nicely,
then sky-line, tree-tops, stems, and principal forms.
Map the thing out, and let's have a look before you
begin to colour.'

Susan pondered and measured, and sung to herself in
little abstracted snatches, and at last produced a firm
pencil-sketch in lines in which (under catechetical ex-
amination) she was able to point out a signalement of
stem for stem, mass for mass, and reflection over against
reflection.

' Now, right or wrong, — and nothing ever seems right
that represents lines as one sees them, — just put in •
all the dark stems strongly with the brush to your out-
line. They must be your landmarks ; and you will see
by them where you are in your work, and look on
Nature and it as things really related to each other.'

' Goodness, Floy ! who ever taught you to talk that
way ?'

' Charley and Mr. Ripon, of course. I've drawn this
place with them two or three times ; and I quite know
it by heart on a day like this. It is one of the autumn
favourites ; and they quote Tennyson about it quite
rampageous.5

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

'What lines —

" When the rotten woodland drips,
And the leaf is stamped in clay"? —

That's too rough.'

' No, that may do at the cover side in February, but
let me see, —

"A spirit haunts the year's last hours,
Dwelling among these yellowing bowers :

To himself he talks;
And all day listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh

In the walks ;
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers " ' —

quoted Flora, as if she never meant to stop.

'Is that morbid, I wonder?' said her friend. 'It's
very nice and very sad, and more like dreaming than
drawing.'

'Well, look at this sketch — six hours' drawing last
year, and about half done. I think there is steady work
in it, and only felt tired after it, not demoralized.'

' Yes, that is very like to-day. Tell me the steps, if
you will, dear.'

'Without coaxing. I've got their notes and descrip-
tion at home, and you can see them this evening, with
May, who knows more than I do. Look, it is just as it
was last year. The frost hasn't done much in this
sheltered place ; and the beeches are green with red
fringes. So this will be a red and green picture, and
you must not think of having sunshine in it. When the
sun comes out, there is nothing to be done, except
draw in foreground forms. A picture with sunshine in
it is mainly a picture of sunshine ; and you have to give

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

up form and colour for it. Now just see where your
red jewels are to come in the green. Have three sprays
on one side, and four on the other, no more ; just outline
them. Ready ? '
'All right.'

' Now run emerald-green and yellow ochre (or gam-
boge for the brightest parts) right away over every
thing but the red — thin and bright. And, while you
are mixing that, mix some raw sienna, light red, and
indigo, rather in a scale warmer or colder (i. e., with more
or less of the red and yellow). Go over every thing with
the pale green. Don't take too full a brush, and puddle
it or flood it, but have plenty of the tint ; take it with a
moderately full brush, and always mix it well in your
brush, then it flows evenly, and that's half the battle.
That runs nicely : now it's nearly dry. Now take some
of the dark mixture, and touch it on where you mean to
have masses of shade : it saves time, and you get an
idea of what the thing is going to be. It is such a
change from outline to colour, that one loses one's head
along with the pencil-lines almost to a certainty. Leave
the red points only, and let dry ; then put the red on,
orange-vermilion — you can "take it down" easily enough
after. Mind you let it all dry enough/ (Industrious
pause, Susan reports progress.)

' Well, that's a good beginning. Can you see your
pencil-lines still ? Now take a good piece out of the
middle of it, and try to finish that as a specimen to give
tone to the rest. Match the tints of principal masses,
and leave blots on the margin, to try others over them.
Now you have on pale emerald and yellow ochre, here
and there gamboge : that is only for the ends and edges,
after all. Now take some indigo and light red with the
gamboge, or, if you want it colder, crimson lake instead

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

of light red. Mix it up well, a thin tint : try it on the
green blot in your margin. About right. Now put it
on in proper form, so as to begin to round the masses
of leaves, as if you were putting the first coat of
rounding-shade on a jam-pot, — all over, except edges
and points and the high lights, as you see them. No, you
mustn't leave that edge because it looks pretty, accident-
ally on your paper. It is not there in the actual thing,
and, if you keep it, it will put you out in working from
the actual thing. Look at the boughs themselves, and
think of nothing but the solid, rounded, projecting form
of the actual masses. It is very difficult to see ; but in
fact every mass of leaves has its high light, and all the
rest of it is darker than that high light ; and so with
every tree. You can't give all the lights, or their infinite
distinctions ; and the only chance is to leave the high
light of every tree or mass, and go slick over every thing
else.'

This harangue was partly delivered from notes on the
back of Flora's old drawing ; and 'at the end of it Susan
felt — or said she felt — very respectful, and, like obedient
Yamen, answered ' Amen ! ' and did as she was bid.

' Carry it all over the water. You can't have any
high lights there, or second ones, indeed, as it is now in
dry light without sunshine. Let dry, and then do the
reflections as you see them, adding shade over shade,
broadly, and without detail : keep that to the last. The
third coat will improve it beyond any thing you can
expect ; and the dark stems and deep shades behind will
do every thing when you put them in in good form.
Have faith : it's going on very well, because you're
doing very well. You see where you are in it : there's
your tree, and there's its reflection. Take a little time
now : you're quite flurried and tired.'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

121

' No. Let me only get on with it.'

' Then take up that foreground stone. A greenish
gray first (all over), cobalt, light-red, and yellow ochre.
There is some red on it ; and nothing does so well as
vermilion for whinstone. Try and hatch it on in faint
lines, — you can't make them too faint. Dry the tint out
of your brush on my blotting-paper. Now, then, ever
such light lines there where the gray turns to red on the
top and side. It will be dry in a moment. Now the
dark side of the stone firmly with the same gray, only
twice as strong. There ! your stone looks solid : it is
just like drawing Charley's block in his perspective
letter. Now put on the moss in patches, as it grows :
first coat, emerald and chrome ; second, raw sienna and
indigo, with a little of any red ; third, add a little
crimson lake to the last, with some more indigo ; and
keep some black touches in reserve, — sepia or violet-
carmine. Let me just do a bit. This is what I mean.'

' Dear, how the forms and lights come out as you put
in the darks ! '

' Of course. One must not care too much for form in
the first two or three coats : it will always come after-
wards, if one knows enough of form ; that is to say, if
one is used to draw the detail of the sort of subject one
is working at ; as we all ought to be, and are not.
Cover the paper first, and get a general tone of right
colour, and the shapes of the masses ; then you begin to
cut the forms out accurately by the darker shadows, —
from light to dark always ; and get forms by outlines of
your shadows : that's the principle.'

' Won't this be a very green picture ? '

'Well, isn't this a very green place? But why
shouldn't it, after all ? If you come to that, it will be a
green and red picture. Put some more vermilion on

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

those red sprays in the green setting : you can't have a
pleasanter contrast than that ; and it is nearly as simple
as black and white. If we hadn't those sprays, we
would put in a raw-sienna fawn, drinking, with brown-
madder points, I think, and a little white on him. Stop !
we'll have one anyhow : you can put him in there
against the dark. Draw him in first in pencil, and take
his outline off with brush and blotting-paper. Look,
now, how all the reds flash on the green, like lights on
dark : that is real opposition in colour.5

' I should say you were a wonderful and exemplary
person, if you weren't so good to me.'

' Well, now, to-morrow we go to Blackbourton Grove ;
but next day, or whenever you get this sort of day,
come down here again for three hours or so, and carry it
all out this way : after that you will see what you've
done, and what it is really like. I think really it is
turning out capitally. You can't possibly enjoy it your-
self till you have got indoors, out of sight of the original.
Nature is a rum 'un ; and you can't like your copy in her
presence.' Half-past one, I declare ! and there's the
bell for lunch. We began at half-past ten : let's do
no more now, but let well alone. You won't want the
fawn : the red leaves are enough. Landscapes ought
always to be exercises in two colours, or three at most.
Charley says that is the one important thing we are
all learning from French landscape now, — the keeping
a picture in one consistent opposition of colour, properly
composed and opposed, in green and red, as it would be
in light and shade.'

' Ah, that was a good example he sent us, of gray
rain-streaks over a mere wash of light red and yellow
ochre, that passed for sea-sands, with the black cor-
morants and white gulls blown about over that long

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123

heap in the foreground, with a suggestion of dark-blue
rags : that was a picture somehow, though there was no
form in it, or colour either.'

' There was fact in it, or genuine sentiment of fact.'

£ Why does that sort of hint affect one so much, and
so particularly in a mere sketch? The lines and tints
themselves have a plaintiveness about them, like sound
from strings, you know.'

' Well, the thing suggested or symbolized death, you
know, with some beauty, and no disgust, only sorrow. I
suspect Charles has really a dash of genius in him. But
really, you know, suppressing detail in a picture is often
like a judicious use of asterisks in a literary catastrophe :
it is an appeal to the audience's imagination. All sym-
bolisms or comparisons are that ; and it may be made
ably or stupidly. It is just the same sort of appeal,
made in an empty, vulgar way, to say that Mr. So-and-
so rode, or shot, or did any thing, like Old Boots : it is
only telling whoever it is that he knows what you mean
better than you can, or care to, express it.'

' Charley and you get very philosophical sometimes ;
and you give your reasons so, — why, and because, or the
curious child answered.'

' Come in to lunch.'

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

LETTER XII.

COMMENT BY CHARLEY ON THE ABOVE SKETCHES.

TOMBUIE, ROSS-SHIRE,
Oct. 20.

These are both good drawings, so good, that I re-
commend Nos. the most advanced of our club, to

take up some subject of this kind. A portion of the
work, or at least the central part and foreground of
it, should, if possible, be finished in colour at the first
sitting. I think subjects like this can be found
easily enough anywhere in England or America, —
simply calm water, reflected trees, one or two stones,
little or no sky, and clear pale light, without sunshine
or sharp shadow. For the rest of the club, my next
letter or two will be about tree-drawing, beginning with
a little discussion as to what character is in things in
general, and, consequently, what it is in trees. Perhaps,
I had better get that preliminary talk over now ; but
first let's have a short analysis, or log, of this woodland
and water subject. It will save much time, in this and
other sketches, if you prepare your paper at home by
washing it over, first with yellow ochre, very pale at the
top, and deepening towards foreground, and then vice
versa, with gray from foreground to distance and sky,
deepening towards the top of the paper. These paints,
then, come first, — yellow ochre, cobalt, light red, yellow
ochre, merely to tone the paper.

On this flat ground draw all the principal lines firmly
in pencil. Some of these lines, in wood-scenery, are sure
to be either the stems or the bright fringes of the prin-
cipal trees. For the present, the stems will be your
landmarks, and, by comparing them with your view of the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

subject, you are to know where you are in your picture.
So put them in firmly, — say in burnt umber and a little
indigo, — and let dry. Settle where you will have the
red sprays, or rather, let Nature settle it for you. Then
go over every thing, except those sprays, with emerald-
green and gamboge or yellow ochre. Then all your paper
will be green-leaf colour, all the brightest highest light.
If you have in any sky, let it be gray,1 and not interfere
with the green picture, jewelled with red, which you are
going to have. Never mind how bright the green is
now : it is always easy to take it down, never to get it
up again. Put in the red with orange vermilion. Next,
Remember how you treated the jam-pot. Consider
the various masses of foliage as rounded masses, and
model them accordingly, — first, with broad light coats
of shade, without much outline, only omitting the bright-
est greens, then with deeper tints of the same shade-
colour. About three successive coats of shade will be
enough to give a great deal of form to the outlines, and
some considerable resemblance to the subject. Almost
any gray you like will do for shade-tints ; but it should
be always mixed with the original green, and made
colder, i.e., bluer in distance. Do not use cobalt in your
sharp foreground shades : indigo is more transparent,
and the rule of opaque colours in distance, transparent
in foreground, holds good in water-colour as well as oil.
In this subject there is no distance ; and indigo will
predominate.

[Shade-tints, all mixed with the first green ; middle
distance.

No. i. Indian-red and indigo : for browner green, raw
sienna and indigo (first coat).

1 Gray, in this drawing, is to mean a mixture of yellow ochre,
light or Indian-red, and cobalt or indigo.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

No. 2. Indian-red and indigo. If you want warmer
shade, increase the red and yellow ; if colder, use crim-
son-lake instead of Indian-red with the indigo.

No. 3. Same again, deepened with lake and indigo.

Shade-tints. Foreground. — On gray stones, burnt
umber and indigo ; moss to be shaded as a green, with
No. 1 tint.

On green or bright yellow green, sharp touches of lake,
indigo, and gamboge. Tree-stems, originally put in with
cobalt and umber, will now look much lighter. Pick
them out with characteristic touches, using brown mad-
der, or violet-carmine, or some deep purple.]

Repeat the same in the water, giving the doubles of
the various trees and stones as you see them. When you
have got the forms of the reflections in, glaze the whole
over with gamboge and burnt umber, adding a little
indigo where you want it colder.

You have now violet-carmine and sepia in reserve for
the extreme darks, and chrome and cadmium for the
highest or richest lights. All I have to say is, be very
canny in the use of either, and meditate every touch of
them you put on. It will save time in the end ; for
nothing takes so long as undoing a mistake, and the
attempt to approach natural effect by force of colour, at
last, risks many errors. The commonest thing in a
faithfully worked drawing is to find that it looks spotty,
and that you have 'made it out' too much, and tried
to draw every thing. Your picture, then, requires what
we call ' bringing together ; ' and that is best done by
a wash of gray-green (yellow ochre, emerald, and a little
gray) all over the masses, or, in fact, all over the whole
work. You may try thus to bring the lighter masses
together with decidedly coloured shadow. But do not
think of doing it by grey coatings over the whole : that

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127

is sacrificing colour altogether. The last strong fore-
ground touches ought, by rights, to bring the whole
picture into tone.

Do not try to ' wash-down ' or out, or use sponge or
pumice, for effect. Let all your finish be in adding fresh
facts by fair drawing. It is wonderful how a thing is
softened and toned, and all that, by simply bringing
parts into their real relation to each other, as you see it
in Nature. The dark part of the water here will pro-
bably have to be hatched and stippled (i.e., done in fine
lines or dots) down into soft darkness ; but that is ad-
ditional fact, because it is soft and dark there. You can,
in fact, repeat this kind of wood and calm water subject
with any manner of well-studied lines and forms of your
own.1

An reste, we are all coming home together in a few
days. Rip goes back direct to his Oxford work, the
more willingly, he says, because I am to take May to
stay a week with the Prseses of St. Vitus, and we mean
to work hard at Turner in the Randolph for some time.
Hobbes will come and see you, and take council with
Jack as chairman of his committee. He gets abstracted
and eager for the stump, I think : we hear occasional
outbursts in the watches of the night, which make us
think he is rehearsing in his sleep. We got a few wood-
cocks yesterday, and send them all to you. It would
be a glorious act of self-sacrifice, if we hadn't seven
couple of snipe for ourselves. I feel as hard as a gorilla,
and quite willing to come back to sedentary life ; though,
as I don't sit much, but stand at an easel, mine ought
to be called stationary. Tell May we have lots of

1 Throughout this book, line means outline of form, which is light
and shade representation. Outline is not imitation, but limitation.

128

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

wings and feathers for her and you, including four
herons and a capercailzie, and no end of guillemots,
also some deer and otter skins. Our ball to all the
country came off brilliantly three days ago ; we have
all done the handsome thing to the schools at Monar ;
and the Meeninster is well pleased, especially with Rip,
who has given him lots of his sermons ; rather pluckily,
I think, as the Highlander preaches extempore, and has
nothing to offer in return except pattern trout-flies.

The Club had better work on at trees till the leaves
are gone : after that, I will give them a study of fruit
for the winter, which I hope will be agreeable, and care-
fully done throughout.

Ever yours,

C. C

CHAPTER VII.

Letter XIII. C. C. to M. L.

My Dear May:

Flora says she has a houseful, and that you
are to be her art-departmental secretary, for the present.
I am to write you a business letter, and, in this instance,
business is certainly not unmingled with pleasure : where-
fore give ear. This tree-drawing business we are going
into will be a long affair; and I fear it may tire out
some of the more impatient spirits in the club ; but
there is no help for it. The pretty wood-and-water
subject sent round with the last portfolio — the pool
at Hawkstone, I mean — is too complicated for
some of your members, even with the analysis and
directions. That is to say, they will get on faster by
beginning with simpler exercises on trees. Indeed, the
best of us have to go back from time to time to outline,
and to simple elementary light and shade : one's memory
always wants refreshing with typical forms in any sub-
ject. No figure-painter ever leaves off studying the
figure, or limbs, in different kinds of action. If you mean
to do clouds, you must fill portfolios with memoranda
of cloud form. And even the exhaustive Lady Latter-
math, and the suggestive Miss Milton, ought to draw
simple groups of trees, and sprays of leafage, every now
and then, to keep their notions and feelings of growth,

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

spring, and character of vegetation, quite 'cute ; nor do I
except you, and, least of all, myself. Now, I think the
way into tree-drawing is by a series of technical hand-
exercises, taken along with a sustained habit of obser-
vation, and mental or actual note-taking, — first from
Nature, secondly from other men's pictures, or work
from Nature. You have not done full justice to a copy
or book-exercise in tree-drawing till you have found
where its author got it, or till you have found some-
thing in Nature like it. It is a comparison of good
models with Nature which will raise you to the level
of your models, and make you imitators, instead of
copyists only. This is the way out of school work into
original work ; out of the Professor's school, as he would
say, into his Master's school.

I said we would begin with a talk about character in
trees and other things ; but let me first tell you my line
of teaching. Character is everything ; and our studies
of tree-character, I think, must come in this order.

1. Hardingesques : you know Harding's 'Lessons on
Trees.' He gives you broad and correct characteristics
of various trees for first hand and eye exercises, to give
you a general idea of masses and their outlines, and
freedom of hand in drawing from the shoulder : this is
preparatory.

2. Then you must draw single leaves from Nature.

3. Then boughs and leaves from Turner, or Hatton's
photographs, or the 'Fessor's examples.

4. Then trees in winter for trunk and branch anatomy.

5. Then masses of trees, in middle distance, from
Turner; especially from the Liber Studiorum, or from
other good naturalist models, which may be had or seen
almost everywhere.

6. Same from Nature, at various distances ; comparing

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

with her touches the way your master-painter (for the
time) does his work from her.

The best thing I see for you, at least for the less ad-
vanced, is to do the copies sent round first ; and then,
others like them from Nature, in pen and sepia, or in hard
pencil washed over with gray. You can't help getting
on that way. All exercises are to be done in pure light
and shade first ; sepia, or any gray you may like better :
sepia is rather hot to my eye. We are studying cha-
racteristic form, and are not to be distracted with colour.

You know the word 'character' is derived from yapaaau),
which means to plough, engrave, or mark deeply, and
is, I suppose, the original word for harass also. The
deeper significant impressions one sees on anything
are mostly connected with its history, and show what
it is, and how it came so : they are its character. You
are a great physiognomist, so are all women ; and you
judge of a man's xaPaKTVP by the score that is written in
his face. Well, I suppose greater beings than we do
the same. I don't really know what it means, the seal
of God, or the contrary mark, on the forehead ; but I'm
sure faces do bear marks of one service or the other. The
Persians say a man's fate is written on his forehead : of
course it is, he does it himself all his days. All natural
objects have their history ; and their external character
is its record ; which, at present, only painters can read.
You ought all to know about the growth and building
up of a tree, because you should all have read 'Modern
Painters,' vol. v. chaps, i-x. The fact is, theory like that
will teach you practical drawing. It gives you principles,
teaches you what to look for in Nature, and to draw with
understanding, not waste life in uncomprehended imi-
tation. So many quick-eyed people draw marks in
without knowing what they mean. It is the habit or

K %

132

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

power of intelligently seizing on features, combining
them, remembering them, reproducing them, which
makes great poets or painters of those who possess it
in its highest degrees, and good sketchers of all who
will try for it faithfully ; for everybody has the capacity
of intelligent drawing, in the first instance, who knows
one tree from another.

Now, Harding's books, Lessons on Trees in particular,
ought to be in the club library : you haven't one, I know,
but you should have. It is very easy to copy and fol-
low, and that is not all ; for it is always right as far
as it goes. But you must try to go farther ; for you
have to learn, not so much to draw from him, as to draw
from Nature as he did. His abstracts of chief forms
of oak, elm, and all trees, are capital ; but, when you go
into a wood to sketch, you will find it very difficult to
do anything from Nature like Harding. He passed
many years in observation, and in working out a method
of execution of the chief facts he observed in Nature ;
and that with a precision of judgment, and skill of
method, which makes everybody see the broad differ-
ences in a moment. Then he gives you exercise after
exercise for the hand, like scales on the piano : I don't
think any one else has done it better; and he did it
first. A certain play of hand in doing outlines is ne-
cessary, though conventional : the great danger is to
rest in it, and think that you need not look at Nature
because your master did. If you do not go from him,
or with him, to Nature, you will get into a way of doing
nonsense-foliage, which you may think like his, but which
really is not so, because his had knowledge behind it,
and yours has not.

This bough is a common hand exercise. You should
practise it on a board or on your blotting paper, always

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133

from the shoulder. But it is good or evil as you use
it, — good to steady your hand, to give confidence, to
teach you to work freely and evenly from left to right,
as well as the other way. It means, in fact, nothing but
radiation in ovoid form. There is no more sense in it than
there is melody in a scale : but a certain readiness of hand
is necessary to playing or drawing ; and I think it may
be gained or helped on by practising this radiating form,
which Harding makes the type of all tree-forms. If
you get tied to it as a conventional method, you will
never make progress from Nature. Doing it is not in

Fig. 4.

fact drawing, so much as preparing your hand to learn
to draw pleasantly. Take this nonsense branch (Fig. 4).
You may consider it as a convenient way of blocking out
masses of leafage. In figure-work, the first 'block out'
in almost straight lines has often much of the spirit of
the form that is coming, though only done to get the

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

right proportions for an outline. And, if you consider
this Hardingesque spray as an introduction to close
drawing of leaves as you see them, you will be following
him more faithfully than if you give imperfect abstracts
of him, as he gave imperfect though excellent abstracts
of Nature. Then, as you have power and opportunity,
you must haunt the modern galleries, and look hard
at Brett, Inchbold, Alfred Hunt, or Goodwin, or any
of the better water-colourists. When you see trees well
done, first understand why you like them ; that is to say,
make clear to yourself from the picture what that par-
ticular natural charm is which the artist meant you to
see : then try and find it in Nature, and finally try and
do it for yourself.

Well, practise this sort of thing on your board or

Fig. 5

blotting-paper, and now compare this bough (Fig. 5)
with the block-out, or scale-practice bough (Fig. 4).
What are the differences that strike you ? and which of

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

135

the two do you like best ? — I daresay some of you will
like the wrong one. In the first place, the nonsense-one
looks freer, as they will call it. So it is, — freer of mean-
ing or interpretation of Nature. There is spring and
radiating line in it, nothing else whatever. The other
is a nearly perfect outline of bough and leaves, calculated
for its light and shade, and ready to have that put on,
so as to make it the perfect form of a bough. (I mean to
go on repeating this difference between line and form
at you, till, as Dr. Liddon says, I have produced a kind
of physical indentation on your minds.) The Turner
bough is drawn under severe remembrance, or in the
actual presence of the actual branch, and is bound to
truth accordingly, — to all manner of truths about it,
great and small. But see how light and feathery the
boughs really are, and how their truth really makes
them free! Why do they look to hang in that living
way, all blowing and growing down to the ends of the
leaves? Because they are foreshortened, or drawn in
the strictest perspective, — far stricter than any rules of
that joyous science can ever teach you to do. Those
little edge-touches are edges of leaves in perspective :
without them, the bough would not come forward as
it does. The leaf-sprays are all like lightly-spread
fingers, 1 as you may see,' — and as I have seen with great
contentment, —

' Your own run over the ivory key,
Ere the measured tone is taken
Of the chords you would awaken.'—

(I always think, like the 'Fessor, that one of the best
things in music after dinner is to see white hands fly.)
Well, you have true freedom in that Turner bough, —
the liberty of being right ; and I for one don't care for
any other.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

This comparison of spread hands will carry you all
a long way towards intelligent tree- drawing in all
varieties. You know how people talk about the fanci-
ful comparisons in 'Modern Painters' and 'The Stones
of Venice,' without the faintest exertion to understand
their real meaning. It is only one instance of what
is called the practical character of the English mind ;
that is to say, its utter inactivity when it isn't paid —
handsomely and immediately. Well, anybody who will
understand the meaning of the terms 'shield-builders'
and 'sword-builders,' as applied to trees, will be re-
warded by having an idea about them which will prevent
his drawing them contemptibly wrong. You've heard
of a Roman testudo, 'the tortoise creeping to the wall,'
the cohort of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder,
and holding up shield overlapping shield, like a coat
of scales to keep off stones and darts ? Well, when you
stand under green boughs in a shower, you stand under
just such a shelter. And, in drawing a tree, think of
it, if you can, as one set of shields over another, remem-
bering that indeed every leaf is literally a protection
for a small bud ; then you will be more likely to draw
branches in perspective, and make your tree at mass-
distance look cylindrical or conical, not as flat as if it
had been squeezed in a book. One sees many drawings,
where the artist has evidently no notion of a tree at
any distance as a rounded thing, one testudo of leaves
above another, but as a flat surface, curiously shaded
without meaning. This is most glaring, perhaps, when
one remembers the way people used to draw firs. They
are sword-builders ; and their leaves are not like shields
separately. But you know the old ideal like a flat-fish's
bones. I see the same sort of thing to this day in Swiss
pictures ; though Calame has brought almost everybody

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

137

on with him into ideas of reality. Think of your pine
spreading arms all round as he does his crown in old
age, one umbrella over another ; then you can't draw
him like the skeleton of a colossal sole.

Tree-drawing is particularly difficult, because it makes
continual demands on intelligence, like all other drawing,
and they are not honoured so readily. People will try
to do it by rule of thumb, and without reason. But now
for a general succession of exercises.

First, get your hand in a little with Hardingesque
foliage. Second, trace this Turner bough exactly, with
transparent paper and a sharp F pencil. Third, with
the help of your squared glass, enlarge it, and draw it
about four times its present size. Fourth, go out with
your copy among elms or beeches, and look for a
drooping branch in perspective like this, and draw it
as you see it in the same style, trying to express every
fact you notice in it, taperings here, swellings there,
ramifications and leaves as you see them. By the time
you have done all that, you will know what it is to draw
a branch.

Then (fifth) take any tree you like, in winter or early
spring, when he is bare. Get his skeleton right in pro-
portion, with your squared glass or thumb and pencil,
and draw all the main branches as they spring from
the trunk. It is drawing the skeleton of the tree, I
know : and I want you to draw that, and yet not to
draw human skeletons. And if you will ask why, it
is because we don't exhibit our bare bones annually
and healthily in a living way, and trees do. But
character is everything ; and you cannot learn the
character and essence of different trees so well by any-
thing as by drawing their structure. For the tree is
verily built up from the seed, limb by limb from leaf

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

on leaf: it is a tower of cells and leaf- fibres. Attend
particularly to the insertions and forks, and the mus-
cular development of the trunk in those parts and else-
where. c Master him at his arm-pits, and you can draw
him anywhere.'

One of the best passages, at least to me the nicest,
in 'The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,' is the talk
about American and English elms and oaks. That man
could have drawn like a landscape painter, if he had not
found so much else that he could do. Thus he says,
' There is a mother-idea in each particular kind of tree,
which, if well marked, is probably embodied in the
poetry of every language. Take the oak, for instance :
we find it always standing as the type of strength and
endurance. I wonder if you ever thought of the single
mark of supremacy - which distinguishes this from all
our other forest-trees? All the rest of them shirk the
work of resisting gravity : the oak alone defies it. It
chooses the horizontal direction for its limbs, so that
their whole weight may tell ; and then stretches them
out fifty or sixty feet, that the strain may be weighty
enough to be worth resisting. You will find that,
in passing from the extreme downward droop of the
branches of the weeping-willow to the extreme upward
inclination of those of the poplar, they sweep nearly half
a circle. At 900 the oak stops short : to slant upwards
another degree would mark infirmity of purpose ; to
bend downwards, weakness of organization.'

I put this passage in my letter, because it is a type
of that artist-naturalist pastime of observation under
every green tree, which, with education, makes the land-
scape-painter, and without which a student will hardly
do much. You must all be born with it, I should say, be-
cause you've all got souls ; at least I'm not Turk enough,

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139

or advanced thinker enough, to think of you in any other
light; but it is wonderful how this interest in Nature goes
on increasing in any man who will observe. To see is to
enjoy: but hand-work is necessary to accurate sight ; and
that is why a non-draughtsman is less fit to be a critic ;
because he has not given that powerful attention, or in-
tensity of gaze, to his subject, which the artist is practised
in giving. No doubt, unintelligent drawing is as great
a dulness as unimaginative description without pictures.
At first sight of that Turner bough, you perhaps don't
like it. Draw it, and you will see a great deal more
in it. Compare it with another drooping bough, and
draw it again : you will see that it is a quite infinite
abstract of branch vegetation. And it is so with all
Turner's landscape work : no other man's are such re-
cords of delighted observation and record of natural
phenomena. Let me talk of artistic observation, though
science claims the word : I mean appreciation of the
beauty of phenomena. Keeping a rain-gauge is observ-
ing phenomena ; taking pleasure in registering from it
is recording with delight, scientific delight ; to draw and
imitate is to record with delight in beauty. And, as
far as I know about being happy, one is so in working
at this kind of record. I don't care if the picture suc-
ceeds ; I have done it, and had my day.

The closer you can keep to the visible facts, the stronger
the delight, and the better the work : but you can't give
them all ; nobody ever could : and you must select for
yourself. And that makes all true landscape-painting
original. Every man's honest delight in Nature is delight
in God's work, and his pleasure is a pleasure of his own.
But, besides that, all draughtsmen see different beauties,
delight in different features, and rejoice in recording
different touches of character ; and if a dozen men are

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

all drawing at Bettws-y-Coed together, same subject
at same time all round, it is possible for them all to pro-
duce original works together. Any subject is great or
original to a man of the right size. Corot is charming to
us, who want to do fifty things he never cared for, because
Corot had a genuine delight in common things : he had
the charmed eye, and delighted in the act of seeing.
David Cox, with twice his range, was the same sort of
man ; and both are, I hope, blessed in their work in
a real sense, though they are not men for students to
follow implicitly, or indeed far.

Now, all winter you will want subjects for practice.
I have given you a good deal to do already ; but next
letter I will try and send you some bits. I think oak,
birch, chestnut, and pine are the four most typical ex-
amples you can have ; and that, if you learn those first,
other trees will be easier to do from Nature, or to make
a good conventionalism of for yourselves : if you add
elm, your set of standards will be complete. You may
take them from ' Hatton's Photographs of Trees ' : they
are published in London ; and the Department Schools
use them. In some sense they are better than Nature
for study of form : the leaves are quiet ; and the whole
thing will wait for you.

Now, I think that's enough for the time ; I am sure it
is if the club mean to do it all. Everybody should do
the Turner bough. Let me see all the exercises, and
do them twice, thrice, or four times the size I send them
by post : it is capital practice for you, enlarging by
means of the squared glass.

I shall be in Oxford late in November. Floy said you
were going to visit the Prseses of St. Vitus's. , He always
likes a house full of ladies ; and this distressing though
amiable weakness will have one satisfactory result, for

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

I4I

I'm coming to live in Jack Spigot's rooms in Ch. Ch.,
meaning to work at Turner in the galleries. That will
be nice for you too, won't it now ? You must take up a
horse with you : I mean to. Nothing will do in these
muggy days so well as a little hunting.

Good-bye, my dearest May, and believe me
Ever yours affectionately,

C. C.

CHAPTER VIII.

WE suppose we may remark, without immediate
contradiction from the scientific press, or any
painful controversy about priority of observation, that
there is a great difference between winter and summer.
It is perhaps more noticeable in Oxford than in other
English towns, as trees are so pleasantly scattered among
the old walls, and the summer contrast of gray and green
gives a charm of colour to the whole place \

But on this day in chill November, the idea derivable
from the ancient city was simply that of dirt, and all dirt.
It rained in a fitful way, ' and the wind was never weary '
of displaying that policemanlike faculty of coming round
the corner, which it possesses in a special degree in
Oxford, because there are so many detached buildings.
Messrs. Abbott and Firkins, the gentlemen's mercers,
felt a calm satisfaction in observing from their shop-

1 [Note by C. C. — I want my upper division to do me a subject
in gray and green ; either a tree near an oldish stone building, or a
gray stone cottage among trees. I allow some moss in foreground,
red, brown, and yellow, but had rather not see it. Use cobalt, light
red, yellow ochre, indigo, and a little black for the grays, and keep
the greens deep, — early-summer colour; emerald and gamboge,
indigo and Indian red into that — lake and indigo to darken — glaze
emerald and yellow ochre if you want to bring it together. Dark-gray
sky. Get all the colouring you possibly can out of the green and gray.]

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

143

windows the showers of hats which kept blowing about
the High Street, and the frequent change of umbrellas
from convexity to concavity. All the schools were open,
and worried-looking examiners were rushing about with
bundles of papers. It wasn't a hunting day. The racket-
courts were full of screams and steams ; the carriers'
carts were three deep all down Broad Street ; and their
proprietors were stumbling about Corn Market, engaged
in conversations very like those of their prototypes in
Henry IV. And Charley on Warhawk, and May on
Kitty, were picking their way down that still rather
picturesque old street in the direction of Port Meadow.
Jack Spigot had lent him rooms in Ch. Ch. for a month ;
and he had brought May on her visit to St. Vitus's.

The two still took each other coolly, on the ground of
distant cousinship and near friendship. No two people
could like each other more. Everybody gave May to
Charles, almost including herself ; and yet they went on,
not regularly engaged, never talking of love, never flirting
with anybody except with each other. They were rather
surprised at not being desperately in love, and hoped
they were going to be some day ; but it had not yet
come off, and they had both rather lofty ideas about
not marrying without it. They had been so much to-
gether, that they were like brother and sister ; and
Charles was sometimes angry with himself for being so
like Tennyson's young man, who

' Because

He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.'

And it can't be denied that he had an apprehensive
hankering for what he called his liberty. Nobody was
less of a rough or a Bohemian ; but he had many and

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

various bachelor friends, artists, writers, and clergy— they
were many of them good fellows ; and his life and talk
with them was a thing he dreaded to lose. Shall I have
to live perpetually spooning May? he asked himself.
And will she like it, either, if I do? Even this was
doubtful ; and May herself did not altogether know her
own mind. She delighted in alternate labour and reverie.
Her mother had thought very highly of the painter ; and
she would probably have had him any day he had asked
her in good earnest : but, till he did so of his own will
and with a will, she held back her heart from him. She
had seen suffering in many forms, and was, in spite of
youth and strength, a grave and submissive sort of person
about herself, expecting less in life than most of her
age. She could be very happy with him, she thought ;
but then they were both happy enough now, compared
with so many others. He had his art : it seemed almost
enough for him, without her. She had woman's work
in nursing, visiting, and schools ; there was a good deal
of music to keep up, and she did hard work as a student
of art. Each was independent of the other from sheer
occupation. Ripon, whom she greatly regarded, felt
strongly against her undertaking any fixed rule of de-
voted life. She was half angry with him sometimes,
because he seemed so determined on her marrying
somebody; then she liked him again, because he was
so fond of Charles, and clearly never thought of any
one else for her. And Charles himself never 'went on'
with anybody else. Meanwhile she lived in her mother's
pretty house, near Leamington. Her father's old stud
groom managed her stable and garden, with a man
and a boy; and the old Yorkshire nurse of other days
was a sort of dame de compagnie, and very good company
too. Mrs. Beecroft permitted Charles to carry off her

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

145

mistress to Oxford with a pretty good will ; for, to do
him justice, he made love to all that was May's.

They had engaged to go round Port Meadow by their
left, and so meet Rip, who was to turn to his right.
The rain had ceased, and the wind gone down ; but a
heavy gloom and wet darkness without mist brooded
over Isis and Cherwell rather depressingly ; and May
said she felt as if they were in an aquarium. She never
would keep one: the fishes gasped at her to that pitiable
extent, and always looked as if they were denouncing
her with their last breath. Charles only said, 'De-
nouncing you ! they must be very odd fish,' sitting over
on one side as his horse trotted on, and looking rather
fondly at her, for he admired her original tirades beyond
measure. They rode across the still firm turf, looking
for the vicar. Port Meadow is a big enough place to
give something of the effect of an unenclosed plain ;
and horses or cattle at the Godstow end are mere specks
in distance from the Oxford end of the race-course.
Presently a steadily-moving object came up out of the
grassy offing ; and they soon recognized a black horse-
man, on a horse of similar complexion, both well known
to them, in common with all town and gown, from the
Vice-Chancellor to the street-sweepers. They watched
the black's even, machine-like stride down the meadow,
and saw he was pulling hard, though otherwise on good
terms with his square-built rider. He cast one of the
small ditches behind him without an effort ; then Rip
saw the pair, dropped his small iron claws, and brought
his horse round to them by main force. His brown,
wrinkled face flushed like a russet apple ; his eyes and
teeth showed white like a nigger's, shining all over with
undisguised, unmitigated pleasure.

' Here we are again ! Quiet, old man ; stand still

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

then! He's quite above himself to see you, my dear
Miss Langdale ; and so am I. How jolly your coming
to Oxford ! and how nice you do look, oh dear me ! '

' I suppose I do. " Weak observation, that of yours,
Mr. Ripon," as the professor said to the undergraduate ;
but I like you much better well browned.'

1 Ah ! it improves one : so it does taters. So odd, you
know ! How are you, Charley ? Warhawk looks short
of work.'

' Well, we are come down here for a gallop ; but after
all, he and Mariquita could do a short day well enough.'

'Just the thing! The Heythrop meet by the monu-
ment at Blenheim on Friday, to-morrow : we'll all go.
It is quite a scene, grand, if not picturesque.'

'What say you, May?' It was settled; and they
went twice round, then cantered up to the Godstow end,
and set their faces homewards on the race-course. The
three horses laid back their ears together, and 'gave
their small hoofs to the winds;' the distance came
rushing up before; the turf sounded deep and hollow,
and the green tufts showered behind like rain. Then
they steadied a while, and May came to the front ; and
they all sailed to the end together harmoniously. How
different was the feeling of trotting home afterwards,
with swelling veins and highstrung nerves, from the
world-worn sensations of an hour before, when Charley
left his easel, and the vicar his oft-interrupted sermon !
Let him, especially the intellectual liver, who can find a
good horse to his mind, be mindful to keep him in
condition, and to do it himself. One knows how much
too fast one goes one's self in exercising a horse : one
never knows how fast one's groom goes. They always
want to get two hours into one.

' We meet at St. Vitus's to-night,' said May to Rip ;

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

* but could we not come with you a little now, and see
the school and the old church?'

' Certainly. My boy can take home your horses, and
you can have a hansom after.'

They trotted across Oxford to his abode in Holywell ;
and he left them for a few minutes in his study, ob-
serving its curious miscellany of classics and fathers,
lexicons, guns, and skins, hard chairs and easy chairs,
sermons, drawings, daggers, 'godly books and gimlets,'
as Charles summed up his description of the place after
dinner. Presently the owner appeared, free from boots,
breeches, and splashes, in his customary suit of solemn
black. They looked at his school, just vacated, and
passed on to the little gray church, beautifully restored,
and well kept, but all weathered outside in many a tint
of purple, green, and golden lichen. Within, the blue
chancel-roof was done in gold stars, with a Byzantine
vine, and clusters of grapes in crimson, its stem encircled
with the crown of David. It was Rip's handiwork in
remembrance of Ravenna, and had exposed him to
about equal objurgation from the religious and the irre-
ligious world. Over the altar it surrounded a mosaic
medallion of the crowned Lamb bearing the Cross. On
the chancel-arch there was a larger one of the Good
Shepherd, imitated from the Callixtine Catacomb. The
Sacrifice of Isaac, and the Crucifixion, Jonah and the
Resurrection, Elijah and the Ascension, the Rock of
Moses and the Blessing of the Elements, were opposed
to each other on the walls, in archaic form and rich
colour. The principal window, amid much grisaille,
had a medallion of Pentecost. The baptistery at the
west end was painted with the Baptism in Jordan, from
St. Pontianus' Catacomb, or other ancient authority, — ■
all Charles's work, with May, the vicar, and a vanished

L 2

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hand, dearest to him, for assistants. Jack paid for the
colours ; and Flora gave the mosaics : it had been a
happy time.

' Tempera was best, after all,' said Charley : ' when a
wall is once dry, it stands very well ; and I must say
you keep the church very warm.'

'We do our best. You see, I think we have got at
real primitive decoration : let's hope people will learn to
distinguish it from the mediaeval in time.'

They passed through the churchyard, and stopped
a while at a tomb, broadly carved with a cross and
crown of thorns budding into roses. The three turned
to the East, and repeated the Creed, holding each other's
hands ; and, as they left the ground, the four-o'clock
bell began to tinkle for evensong.

' I'm going to read prayers : my curates are both
away. It is a short service ; and the Praeses does not
dine till seven. Cup of tea after in the study, May.'

' Come, you do call me May again. You began with
Miss Langdale.'

' I don't want you to keep that name always, anyhow.'

May blushed a little vermilion blush of her own, and
asked after some verses which she had once heard of as
containing a description of his church.

' Ah, it comes in apropos of some Bedouin graves in
the Sinai desert: you shall see some day. But there
are one or two old people to see before prayers. Here's
Charles : there's a warm corner in the chancel for you
both.'

He looked with an anxious pleasure at the two noble
figures and bright faces who stood by him as he read.
They were near to each other, he thought hardly near
enough ; and he felt their happiness would be great part
of his.

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149

They met again at a dinner such as the Praeses of
St. Vitus's was wont to give his friends ; that is to say,
an extremely good one, with perfectly assorted guests,
all glad to meet each other. His banquets were often
rather noisy in consequence. People wanted to talk to
each other, and did so, on this occasion, all at once. It
was decided, among other agenda, that Charles, May,
and Miss Crakanthorpe (the Praeses' only daughter,
and the delight of Heythrop, Bicester, South Oxford-
shire, and Old Berks) should take Rip to Blenheim next
day. ' That will bring a great field of the lads out,' said
the Praeses. 'You'll go and keep order, won't you,
Archivist? Cawthorne's young and impetuous, and
Ripon is apt to be run away with, they say.'

' Well, it's generally in the right direction. I've only
been told to hold hard once this season. My old horse
has his motto, " Be with them he will ; " but the Archi-
vist will show us all the way.'

' We'll see some of the fun, if there is any,5 said a tall
man, stricken in years, whose singularly bright eyes and
falcon face retained an indescribable look of youth, in
spite of the deep ploughing of time, labour, and sorrow,
reading of many books, and knowledge of many things,
especially horses and manuscripts. ' It's rather a show
meet ; but, if I go with you two ladies, why, / shall have
something with me to show.'

A slight and well-timed frost next morning made it
possible to ride to cover without being prematurely in-
crusted with the Oxford oolite clay. Two favoured
undergraduates somehow got admitted into the court-
yard of the Praeses' lodgings, and had the privilege of
seeing the Archivist toss May into her saddle, and
hearing Mariquita's soft neigh to her mistress, 'just like
a sister,' as Gertrude Crakanthorpe said, giving him a

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small foot for the same purpose. Rip met them at the
gate; Charles trotted up at the end of the Museum
Road ; and, if M. Taine had been present, he might
have reconsidered his artistic regret that the Italian
cavalcades of the Renaissance exist no more. Charles's
old pink was a study of gradated hues. Lord Wharfe-
dale and young Devereux were clad in new scarlet, and
other delights of fresh buckskins, gold chains, and the
brightest possible boots. Rip was all black, or the
darkest gray, scarcely relieved by his dark saddle and
bridle, bright heavy snaffle and spurs ; but the black
glanced and shone like velvet all over. The Archivist
looked what he was, — scholar and horseman, a match
for Symonds or Simonides ; and every horse in the
party was a picture.

Gerty and May were in small stiff pointed hats, how
fastened on, so tight as they certainly were, the chro-
nicler knows not. They had short, black cock's feathers,
fresh faces, dark pupils versus blue, with the gallantest
figures in the tightest of habits, — one with her purple
hair in a twisted cable ; the other with a round nugget
of gold on the back of her neck ; ' and all that's best
of dark and bright met in their aspect and their eyes.'
Could the Romance nations, or the Renaissance period,
ever have turned out anything to beat them? The
question was thoroughly gone into in a tobacco-parlia-
ment that night, with Wharfedale's and Devereux's
assistance; and Charles very skilfully closed a dis-
cussion, which certainly never would have ended other-
wise, except with the summons to morning chapel. He
said he could not imagine more beautiful people, in an
abstract, general way, than English girls, or indeed men ;
but there was no model but the Italian model, and
others could not be got into pictures. The same cast of

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Italian face and form, Lombard or Etruscan, prevailed,
as he said, all through the great pictures of the world ;
and they were too many and too great for modern men
and their subjects. While Titian and Tintoret remain,
you must go after them. Rip stood out for Holbein's
Englishmen, and thought that Phoebus, Sternchase, and
Tingrind, working together, were strong enough to
make the insular features 'rather typical or so'; and
Charles admitted that mysterious expression as the
party broke up.

The morning's pleasure at Blenheim was memorable
to the vicar above all others. He seldom saw fox-
hounds, except in the course of the education of Master
Walter Ripon, who had made his first appearance by
the cover side last season, at the age of thirteen. Some-
how, people were not much scandalized. The father
was unlike anybody else ; the boy was a pretty boy ;
and the old Archivist's example was a tower of strength.
So the black horse appeared now and then, when
hounds met within easy reach of Oxford : and the vicar
sat on him now, with a grim smile on his brown face
and in his hollow, eager eyes, thinking of a good gallop
with May, his second remaining delight in this world ;
and disregarding things in general.

I know few fairer or more stately scenes, and none
more accordant with English notions of Old England,
right or wrong, than a meet of foxhounds in Blenheim
Park. Quorn and Pytchley are perhaps of louder fame,
and Bedale or Bramham have trysting - places more
romantic, and dearer to the Northern heart ; but, for all
that, when the Heythrop's gallant Master, and Goodall,
and the lads in green, the brilliant, swift-looking pack, and
the field of regular customers on regular flyers, trot up the
long slope towards the palace, and turn off to seek their

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

sport, the sight is pleasant to remember, and hard to
forget. The turf was blue-gray where the hoar-frost
lingered, delicate yellow-green wherever it had been
sunned or trodden. Cawthorne duly noted this oppo-
sition of colour; and his business eye was quick to
observe the clear red-orange of dead brackens, the broad
purple and green stems and shadows of the old oaks,
the flash of scarlets ' as they fled fast through sun and
shade,' the seat and hands of horsemen, and the stride,
form, and satin coat of many a well-bred horse and
hound. Above, all was delicate blue, soft haze, and
mottled cloud ; and below, the British public, or a
chosen portion of it, took its pleasure much less sadly
than it is popularly supposed to do.

As for the sport, they found a fox in one of the small
southern covers, and galloped about the park after him
pleasantly enough. The predestinarians, as Ripon called
the people on foot, of course headed him from the only
point which promised a good run ; but the sagacious
animal was willing to indulge his devoted followers, and
proceeded without over-exertion to Bladon, making suf-
ficient stay in the little copses on the way to let in the
roadsters. The fences were large and ragged ; but there
were endless hand-gates ; and the vicar had to indulge
the black with two or three gratuitous jumps, in a
manner not unamusing to the field, as the excited animal
generally cleared about his own height, without the least
relation to the size of the obstacle, and once sent his
master on to his neck. Rip promptly reinstated himself,
however, and sailed on rejoicing. Then they got back
into the park, did a good deal more galloping, and finally
lost their fox, with a happy consciousness of having, in
all vulpine probability, afforded him much amusement,
and not more than a fair amount of healthful exercise.

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153

' He'll live to run another day,' said the Archivist.
' It's a bore for a flying pack like this to get into a big
park, with covers all round, and a cramped country. A
huntsman can see and hear hardly anything, and has to
ride like mad all over the place, without a chance of a
straight burst. Halloo ! what's that row in front ? '

'Are you aware that the hounds have just run into a
kangaroo, and eaten him?' asked a dry-polite man on
his left, not moving a muscle at the roar which arose from
his audience. It was too true. One of the marsupial de-
nizens of Blenheim Park had jumped up suddenly in the
midst of the pack, and been incontinently pulled down ;
and now some of his disconsolate and diabolical-looking
friends approached, hopping on their hind-legs and tails
to shelter, and nearly stampeding all the horses, who
had never seen such unearthly or pretty things before.
The black bolted under an oak ; and Rip might have
shared the fate of Absalom, if he hadn't been bald.

They turned home after one or two more rather per-
functory draws. There was a slight luncheon at Wood-
stock ; and then Charles put May up once more, and
thought her very beautiful as she looked down on him ;
while Rip took the duty, as he clerically expressed it, of
mounting Gertrude Crakanthorpe, or Gerty Crack, as
her familiars called her, — by no means behind her back.
He was very fond of her. He liked all women who
behaved not intolerably, or who were, or said they were,
unhappy ; but Gerty was a special pleasure to him, be-
cause she threw a reflection of her own high spirits over
his nervous melancholy ; she was one of the best girls
in or out of England ; habitually attacked him about
anything or nothing, and always visited his old women.
She now began at him the moment they were clear of
the inn door.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

' I was sorry to observe that you came on the Black
Monk's neck over that wall,' she said. ' Do you think
it's quite safe for a heavy, timid parochial clergyman,
getting on in years, to ride that sort of horse ? The Pro-
batognomon of St. Turl's knows of a roarer that might
do for you, he says.'

1 He wants to have you all to himself, I suppose.
What a pity that such an important college-officer should
be so given over to bachelor amusements, like horse-
dealing, and that young ladies should talk about roarers !
Evil communications, Gerty.'

' He won't allow you can ride at all, you know. Can
you tell me why gentlemen always abuse each other's
equitation ? '

' I haven't a notion ; but I think it must be true, as
we have both noticed it. I don't think much of my own
performance ; but I do like riding, though I learnt it
late, we were so poor when I was a boy. I never felt
like a workman till we came back from the East, twelve
years ago. Four thousand miles on all sorts of ground
and all sorts of nags and paces, is a long lesson.'

' Well, he says you ride too short, and roll and wab-
ble, and are quite loose in your seat : that comes of the
Turkish saddle. If he hears of that performance just
now, how he will go on about it ! '

' You'll defend me, I know : at least, you're sure to
give it him about something ; which will avenge me.
But don't underrate Arab riding till you've seen it, or
mix it up with Turkish, though that is nearly as good.'

' Why, they can't ride to hounds.'

' Nor we to sword or spear-play.'

' And they've no real seat.'

' Nor we anything like hands.'

'Now, Mr. Ripon, I may snap at you, you know;

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

155

but you musn't snap at me. Tell me what you mean
about Arab riding.'

'Why, it's so much more pliant and sympathetic, you
see, than ours. The rider's limbs, and the swing of his
body, seem to guide the horse : they will turn quite
short without a bit in their mouths. I've ridden all
paces without one in Syria ; and Palgrave says the same
of his Nejdees. I saw a capital expression once, that
the Anazeh horse under the Anazeh was like the boxer's
legs under the boxer, moving with him instinctively, with
one will.'

' I'm afraid the Monk won't come to that just yet.'

' No, right ahead is his little game ; and it is agreed
we can do that. But it was wonderful to see our old
Sheik Salam press his nag with his bare calf, and use
it like a spur. He could make a regular racing finish
with his bare legs, as if he had been ever such a
punisher.'

£ Isn't it rather fine, galloping alone in the desert ? '

' I'd rather gallop with you in Port Meadow ; but I
liked the fast dromedary's trot for a few miles by my-
self ; it looks and feels very odd and wild.'

* What first-rate horses did you see ? '

' None, to look them over well, except a big one of
the old Leopard's, Abd-el-Azeez, at Jericho, — a big
chestnut horse. They said he had no price : they value
size so much when they can get it. He had good flat
hocks, and quarters that reminded me of the pictures
of the Flying Dutchman ; but he could not have been
a real Nejdee. They kept him rather low in flesh, and
he was so very quiet in the midst of lots of screaming
women and children, camels and camp-fires, and all that
sort of picturesque bustle, which you wouldn't exactly
stand, old boy, would you ? ' he said to the Monk, who

156

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

neighed and plunged as if he was only meditating a
day's work some time. ' There was a better horse at
Damascus, that belonged to Sheik Miguel of the Anazeh ;
but he had a temper: at least, he wasn't safe at his
pickets,5 &c. In short, Gerty and her reverend admirer
were now fairly launched into a talk about horses ; and,
as conversations of that kind seldom or never come to
an end by themselves, we have no course open to us
except closing this chapter by the strong hand.

[Note II. by Charley. — As a study of colour, a
hunting-field, in park or pasture-ground, might be made
a valuable and beautiful subject, I think. Wood com-
plicates the thing greatly; and ploughed land and cut
hedges are no pleasanter to the painter than to the
hunter. The figures must never be brought too near,
however. Modern boots and saddlery are utterly in-
tractable in a picture ; and they are more hopelessly
vulgarized, because all pictures of the chase, as we have
them, seem to be done from a tailoring, or bootmaking,
or betting, or horse-dealing point of view. The ideal
of the sportsman would really approach to that of the
painter. One would want to see, and the other to repre-
sent, hounds working or hounds running ; the latter as
fast as you like, but in any case, as they actually do
both. A pack at work, with the field as attendant on
them and subordinate to them, in the midst of faith-
fully-done landscape, will always be a good pictorial
subject. See many works of Birket Foster's, and Leech's
woodcuts. And horses and men singly are subjects.
But I fear that Nimrod's run, which is all riding rather
than hunting, and that of a rather jealous character,
is a different matter. Yet I don't know why racing in
a run is more vulgar than racing at Olympia, if you
come to think of it : high training, skill and courage,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

157

dignify both ; and as for beauty, a horse and man flying
something are very comely in going — as good as a biga
or quadriga, for aught I know. But boots are boots, and
they won't paint. I wish we could hunt in rough clothes,
as we shoot, and have nothing shiny about us except bits,
spurs, stirrups, and horses' coats. Shininess is abominable
in art, and nothing has any business to flash nisi tem-
per ato splendeat usu. Still, if you don't want to bring
in staring portraits, and will treat the subject as artist's
work, it may be an artistic subject. Thus, in the scene
above mentioned, as I see my supposed picture of it, the
sky and distance would be painted in the faintest grays,
more or less blue, but allowing no actual blue, even in
the sky, nor, indeed, any pure white. There should be
a foreground of broad, sloping, or converging sweeps of
green-gray and white grass (frosted) opposed to yellow-
green grass (sunned or trodden). This should be con-
trasted or enriched passim with the red of fallen leaves
and dead fern, and the frosty parts made very blue in
their shadows. There might be two or three hounds
in foreground, a gray or white horse at some distance,
a chesnut, and perhaps a black, leading into middle
distance, where pinks should be distributed as flashes
of scarlet, perhaps opposed by gorse or some deeper
green, very sparingly, I think. The colour ideal of the
whole is simply autumnal tints enhanced by scarlet
coats, and deep or bright colours in horse and hound,
without enough individuality to call the eye away from
the whole scene in its unity. The Heythrop green
velvet1 is an important addition in colour, though diffi-

1 The huntsmen and whippers-in of this distinguished pack always
wear coats of green velvet, of some special manufacture for tough-
ness and endurance.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

cult to bring in ; but I remember Jem Hill's white hair
when he wore it under his black cap, and it surrounded
his gallant old face in a way which made him a rather
grand foreground figure on a white horse he rode. He
is commemorated thus in Tom Spring's celebrated ' Pic-
tures from Oxford : a Gallop from Bradwell Grove/]

CHAPTER IX.

' T THINK you enjoy Oxford, May,' said Gertrude,
JL a morning or two after the Blenheim day ; (in
the Praeses' garden, green and old ; — wearing dark
gray slashed with maize-yellow ; May ditto, with
crimson — under a great red-armed cedar — and standing
on short, deep turf almost as evergreen — a college
garden is a rare thing in these days. Candour compels
us to state that there had been a visit to the stables,
and a prolonged petting of their horses, not unaccom-
panied by largesse of small pieces of carrot).

'Rather, I should say. Everybody is so racy, and
you are all so good to me.'

'Then you will be good to us, and stay a long time,
till next term at least? That is what papa asked me
to ask you, all of himself before breakfast. He declares
he is hopelessly in love with you himself; and what is
more, I'm sure he thinks you will do me good, you
know, and keep me in order.'

' I never could undertake that for anybody, and I
think we should both run the same way. But should
you really like to have me for a long visit ? They say
I ought to see more of the world : it is so nice here ;
and I detest London, and Paris too. It would be very
pleasant, only it's burdening you and the Praeses.'
' He begs for it himself, and all of himself/
'Then you'd have to allow followers. My cousin is

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sure to come to see me now and then, when he can't
paint any more ; and Mr. Ripon too, — though one can't
say which of us two he comes after. But I should like
to stay with you, Gerty : we like the same things, and
— and you have lost your mother too/

' Ten years ago, you know ; don't think me unnatural,
please, to have said so little of that before you spoke.
It is a long time, and I have not forgotten. I think
papa feels I am obedient, on the whole ; and I'm very
fond of him.'

She looked straight up to May, who was little ac-
customed to turn her eyes from any woman's, — a man's
gaze she never met or noticed, except in vivid talk, or
strictly on business. The black eyes and blue met ;
and then two pair of scarlet lips, twice over, and May
had another friend.

' I'm only another bead on the chaplet ; so many girls
like you,' quoth Gerty. 'You are quite a woman's
woman, and I think I shall do whatever you tell me.'

' I'm only the string, and all of you are the pearls ;
but I really have a pretty long row. You will like my
Cousin Flora so, when you go to Hawkstone. I can
stay three weeks now ; then I must go to RotherclirTe,
and relieve poor Sister Helen, till after New Year ; then
I suppose it will freeze. We might all meet in Feb-
ruary in the North Midlands, and go out with the
Goredale.'

'They say everybody is so jealous about riding in
those parts, ladies in particular : the men call them the
Cut 'em down Counties.'

'Why, you know riding men are jealous, and abuse
each other's horsemanship everywhere, as the Probato-
gnomon did Rip's. I like going fast, and sailing old
Catapult at places ; and, if one is always waiting for

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. l6l

people, one can't do that ; but I don't care who is
before me if I see the hounds. I couldn't bear to be
seen racing any one, unless it might be Flora or Susan
Milton for a field or two : I don't care for that sort of
vixenish courage girls put on to beat each other : not
good form, as men say.'

' How much of our time is taken up with wanting to
beat each other?'

' Les rois le veulent^ — men will have it so : they will
be made up to.'

' They are hard upon us : it is made our whole
business in life to get married ; and they talk about
husband-hunting if one tries to transact one's whole
and sole business. It is a great thing to be indepen-
dent, only in managing for papa. But I should like to
have a life of my own as you have.'

' Did you ever take to music or painting in great
earnest ?'

' Well, I sing ballads, and like it, and can play things
right, for myself, and for children and old people ; but
beyond that, and harmonized Gregorians, I never shall
get. Tell me about drawing, and come and see my
things. I want to make a great effort that way.
" Modern Painters " had such an effect on me when I
read it in Switzerland ! Look now, could I ever do
any thing worth doing?'

'Undoubtedly; but you will always want to do
better : as Mr. Ripon said so oracularly, you may be
happy in your work, but never with it.'

' Yes, that's it : that dissatisfaction makes me think
I might feel like an artist if I couldn't be one. How
nice it is to get a thing nearly right, and find it really
improve as one goes on ! '

' Yes : Charles says that is the real pleasure in the

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

operations and effort, rather than the complete work
and effect. Soul, eye, hand, knowledge, all. at work
together harmoniously, — that's true pleasure while it can
last. Do be one of us, Gerty : it will make you almost
happy sometimes.'

£My dear, how can you talk so?' said Gerty, very
tenderly : ' it sounds so melancholy, and you have
every thing, and are every thing, you know.'

* Not quite either ; but I do quite agree with Dr.
Watts, about not more than others I deserve, and so
on. What I mean is, there is something so absorbing
in working at a beautiful thing, that it makes one happy
in a new way like no other. It is a mental stirrup and
saddle ; and when one's in it, one's off the ground and
going.'

' A sort of " wings to waft one over," ' sung Gerty.
' I hope it's not wicked, but I have said that so often,
coming up to a fence.'

' I daresay ; but anyhow, if you have an art you really
pursue, it is a quiet reign or element of your own. And
we all want that, we are getting so over-wrought and
excitable. Then you know it's the best part of educa-
tion and independence. One can do the smaller things
in Art as well as men do ; and there are not many of
them who dare try great things. You or I really might
do nearly as well as Mr. Whichpot or Mr. Qualms,
R. A.'s.'

' I suppose it would get dreary and anxious, working
for life.'

1 Oh yes ! it's that that keeps them down : they marry
us, and then we are dead weights— of course. But all
the best men say that the troubles of the artist are one
great reason why amateurs should work hard : they
have often time to do or find out special things the

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163

bread-winner has not time to try after. If we break down,
our failures don't involve starvation. Painting three or
four hours a day only would be a holiday to a workman ;
but he has to spend a great deal of time in working for
the market, and doing himself more harm than good.
You or I, well employed, might spend all that time in
work that really improved us, whereas the regulars have
often to spend it in repeating their own slightest and
worst sketches.'

' Three hours a day are a good deal, but I think I
could get two.'

'Well, that's twice as much as the Professor's ulti-
matum : he talks of how much may be learnt in one
hundred hours or two hundred half- hours. So much
depends on how hard you look at things in drawing
them, and on your always observing and noting things
everywhere. Then, you know^ by an hour he means
not less than sixty-five minutes of absolute attention.
Eager people, who are always roaming with a hungry
heart, see and do so much more in the given time.'

' But you haven't told me my weakest points, May.'

' Well, you know this is good student's work : you
haven't the usual want of drawing, — lines pretty right,
and plenty of form in the distances, — no want of
material, as he says. You want what we all want, who
are not always at it, — that mysterious quality of solidity
in front, leading away into middle distances, and so on.
Tone, I think, really means the same : it is the quality
which holds a picture together from foreground to
zenith. . It is so hard to get, because it depends on
habitually good perspective, and Tightness in pitch of
shade according to distance. I believe Charles is to
tell us something about that, as to trees, in his next
letter. I should think more "Liber Studiorum" and

M 2

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

jam-pot or object-drawing, would be the thing for
you.'

' Talking of objects — just look at my portrait sketches !'

' Why, my dear, you must have got this dodge from
" Hamerton's Essays." It is so good, — his idea of
getting graphic power is by studying people's faces.'

' I suppose you mean, by graphic power, command
of character?'

'Yes, of course, — graphic means marking, and cha-
racter means mark.'

'That is one of the 'Fessor's principles, — every outer
mark to mean something in the heart or disposition or
history of the creature.'

' Well, faces are always capital practice when one can
do them delicately enough. I wonder which is hardest,
now, to see the way things are going in somebody's
eyes and mouth, or to see the same in a tree or a cloud,
or the bed of a stream.'

' I don't know, — it is all too difficult ; but what is one
to do, May?'

'Oh! first catch your characteristic. Here you have
the great hollows about the vicar's eyes, and the writhe
in his mustache when he sets his lips ; catch your
salient feature, and then score it down so that you'll
know it again. Rembrandt is the standard, I believe ;
then there's Leech ; and for landscape and animals,
nothing like Landseer's pen and inks ; Turner's etchings
whenever you can get them.'

* Oh, my ! ' exclaimed Gerty. ' What an idea ! can't
we all go to town, and see the Landseer exhibition ?
I'm sure it's going to freeze, look how pink the clouds
are. The horses want a rest, and papa wants a day's
holiday — and to go with you too — upon my word, that
old governor will get quite above himself!'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

'Miss Crakanthorpe, be explicit and coherent.'
' Fiddle — let's have in Rip!'

'Gertrude Crack, Spinster,' — said May, in the style
of Mrs. Chapone, — ' repair to your chamber, and put on
your habit, and I'll put on mine, and we'll consider this
subject in a manner becoming our station.'

So they called to horse, and galloped in Port Meadow
before lunch, meeting and racing with the vicar, who
always tried to make his daily hour of equitation coin-
cide with theirs.

Before the expedition (for of course Gerty had her
way), the following epistle on tree-drawing came to
hand : —

Letter XIV.

My Dear F. :

When one begins about real tree-drawing, it
isn't very different from beginning about drawing any
thing else thoroughly, because there is no end to it.
You know, the best men are only students learning
qualche cosa, as Michael Angelo said at fourscore ; and
he is the happiest painter who paints the longest.
Now, I think that landscape is underrated in this way.
Figure-painters, the dullest or most theatrical genre
men, despise it, because they think it easy ; never
having really tried it, or in fact looked hard at it.
The world takes their word against the landscapists, and
Nature is considered easy because people have not given
eyes and attention to her difficulties. Some of us have
learnt more, by working out our back-grounds ; only
it takes a painter to make accessories help up the
principal figures, instead of drawing attention from
them. But as soon as one begins to enjoy one's
background, one learns that the endless change and

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

variety1 of landscape make it as difficult to imitate
as figures, draped or undraped. One is more multi-
farious, the other more subtle ; but a good observer
will find only too much to record in either.

But the fact is, landscape has not yet been scien-
tifically studied, like figure-painting ; and is really
purer art, because it is not demonstrable by gram-
mar of anatomy. A surgeon understands figures pretty
well ; and half the world would rather take his opinion
of them than a painter's. But, except for some
knowledge of geology, which proves dangerous to fel-
lows who set up glacial theories and do drawings to
prove them, landscape is still in the empiric state2.
Rocks and rivers are painted because they are beautiful,
one don't know why, and because they are there, one
don't know how. Consequently, landscape loses all
the scientific trumpets ; and you're not in that vast
ring of people who want to get their living by physical
study ; and they don't advertise you. We can't prove
an Alpine storm or a sea-sunset ; whereas, when a
fellow can assert (I can, you know, and I'm sorry for
it) that he has cut up human bodies, and knows how
their shins are inserted, and is up to the processes of
their humeruses, then he can paint any contortions he
likes, and the dear old public will think it is high art,
and all the vivisectors and sawboneses will warrant him
equal to Michael Angelo. It takes some indefinable

1 Note in margin by Flora. What on earth is the difference
between change and variety ? Answered in pencil. Variety means
multiplicity, — trees, leaves, and grass ; change means different light,
shade, motion, and position in one tree or leaf. Would you, then ?

2 What's empiric ? Answer. Rule of thumb, conjectural or in-
ventive work ; where you get the effect you don't know how ; like
cooking, Plato says.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

167

feeling for nature, and much undemonstrable knowledge
of the look of woods and hills, and much hard drawing
of one's own, to understand an eight-inch drawing of
Turner's. Whereas, anybody in his senses can coach
up his bones in a week, well enough to say that the
Atlas has his trapezoid muscle strongly developed, and
call the calf of his leg his gastrocnemius. That is art
on a scientific basis ; and Science will advertise her own
lectures by puffing pictures which display that kind of
knowledge. If you are led or driven, through I don't
know what sustained effort, to paint one mountain as you
have seen it, under sun or storm, or both, you and your
Master best know the labour it costs, technical and
imaginative. But who will care for or believe in your
vision of that mountain ? A certain number of ob-
servers and landscape-lovers, — all the sketching-clubs
I hope, — and if your name is worth money, a number
of people will want to get something by what you have
done.

I don't quite say what Juvenal said, — ' Every thing in
Rome has its price.' — I think better of our people when
on honour. But I do see that most men here think
of money at all times and in all things. I talked to
Rip about it ; and he said that want of money means
need in general, and that the original curse on human toil
under the sun is heavy on painters as well as plough-
boys, — and that we are all well off not to be starved,
if we follow our own ideas our own way. Which is
true. But whether men buy and sell landscapes or
not, figure-painting' is thought to be a learned pursuit,
because it is respectable, and demonstrable, and con-
nected with the doctors. Men are quite sure about
surgery, not so sure about art ; and anatomical paint-
ings prove their authors have read books, whereas land-

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scape only shows you have observed things ; and ' books
against things ' is the war-cry of all Prigdom.

Now, the character of trees is of course closely con-
nected with their anatomy ; and Hatton's photographs
are a valuable step in the direction of more scientific, or
better informed landscape. But knowledge of forest
anatomy can hardly be so well appreciated as that
of the human subject. And so landscape is perhaps
the most artistic branch of art just now. First, its
higher walks are not well rewarded, the Academy almost
excluding its true leaders ; and so it is not utterly mer-
cenary. And, say what you will, the intense vulgarity of
so much English work comes direct from its venality.
Then it is a real study of delight, and does not minister
to doctoring or lecturing, or any other means of raising
the wind. It is a ministry of pure pleasure to those who
have enough purity to take pleasure in it. And its
power depends on its character and its authors. I keep
saying, The character of a man is the history of his soul ;
the character of his works is the stamp his soul leaves
on things. What does one see in a good drawing? That
the facts are rightly done, and right things to be done,
first ; and then that the man who did them was the sort
of man to do things right, — a seeing man, a thoughtful
man, an honest workman, perhaps a creative or poetical
person. You learn something of the spirit of the painter
by the work, and form and colour are the material or
objective side of art, as character and composition are
its spiritual or subjective part. The character of the
workman will certainly come out in all he does, as soon
as he has reached a certain technical correctness, enough
to enable him to do anything. Even bad or nugatory
work bears the character, or stamp, of impatience, of
vanity, or simplicity, of ambition over-reaching itself,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

169

of apathy or indolence ; — or of the notion born of all these
foibles, that landscape is an easy thing, not worth the
whole attention of the great intellect now devoted to it.
It is a curious observation of MacDiarmid's, that when a
class of youngish students is drawing the same cast of a
face, every lad, when he begins to be able to draw it at all,
does it with more or less resemblance to his own. He,
MacDiarmid, has noticed this repeatedly ; and it is a great
mystery, going down into £ the abysmal depths of per-
sonality V

Well, people begin to draw trees, and then come and
tell you, in a rather injured tone, that trees are so difficult.
They want everything for nothing, as we all do ; and it
cannot be had so : they want to imitate an oak in a
couple of hours, and those not very attentive hours ; — when
they know that it took God Almighty a century to make
it, by the laws of Nature. But knowing the difficulty is
a great step ; and it is all comprised in the words ' cha-
racter' and ' change of character.' There are various trees
of various dispositions ; and the disposition of the tree
changes with the seasons and its own age. No two trees
are less like each other than a young oak and a young
Scotch fir ; but their character assimilates by time ; and,
as old trees, they have much the same gnarled expression
of resistance all round the compass, — both proclaim to
the observer that ' it's dogged as does it.'

Well, of course form distinguishes the different kinds
of trees best ; and colour has more to do with the dif-
ferent looks of the same tree, according to season. There
is emerald-green, and gamboge in spring ; there is early

1 Pencil-note: Where's that? Answer. I suppose you mean
where is that passage ? not what is the exact situation of personality ?
— Tennyson's ' Vision of Sin,' of course.

170

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

summer dark-green, bronzed green of a hot August,
paler green, and then1, in autumn, yellow and red. Ou
sont les feuilles d'antan?2 Never mind, if you have
their ghosts in your sketch-book.

I said oak, birch, chestnut, and spruce fir should be our
four standards, or typical trees, to begin with. Beech,
ash, or elm, or walnut will do as well ; in fact, if you
mean business, you must draw them all, — we will see
how. But stick to one or two favourite kinds till you
begin to verify the general principle of growth as given
in 'Modern Painters,' vol. v. It is that the upper
branches grow upwards as a rule, and the lower ones
droop downwards ; because the upper ones have more,
light, and use it by trying always for more and more,
growing upwards to the sun they love ; and the lower
boughs droop as they get dripped on, and shaded from
above, and as the sap always rushes up past them from
the root towards the top shoots. For the life of the tree
seems to be a fountain of its sap projected straight up-
ward like any other fountain. Study this with elm
skeletons in particular this winter. They will show you
the rationale of that pear shape tree, which the profane
used to call the shaving-brush type of tree, in Turner's
Mercury and Argus. It is as good as a diagram, of the
spiral growth of branches round the stem, of the effect
of the uprushing sap feeding the top of the tree first,
and of the gradual dwarfing and drooping "and final
death of the lower branches year by year.

You must know that the Professor has given me his
practical book, ' Elements of Drawing from Nature,'

1 For deepest shades use indigo and gamboge, warming it if
necessary with Indian-red or lake. Orange-vermilion, gamboge, and
lake, will come in as autumn hues.

2 Old French for ' ante annum/ last year. See 1 Les Miserables.'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

pictures and all, to do as I like with for your benefit.
I shall not alter anything he says at all in substance ;
but it strikes me that you may like to have all, or nearly all,
his tree-lessons together, and so I shall change the arrange-
ment a little. You have already had his introductory
hints on perspective, and lessons in shading and rounding
forms. But he now prefers to insist more on outline,
and gives me commission to put all who have faith
through a fresh training in that. I am so glad to find
so many of you willing to take elementary practice up
again. It does you great credit,
and all artists do it in various
ways ; but the reward is sure,
and there's no time to stop and
praise you. In the first place,
then, draw the piece of ramifi-
cation at the end of this letter
(Fig. 15) at twice its size as
there given ; and Fig. 8 (a
and b both) at thrice theirs.
Then Fig. 6 as follows. Take
a small twig, with four or five
leaves like this. Draw its out-
line at thrice its size, this way.
First a perpendicular line in
the middle of your paper : on
that measure the triple length
of the woodcut, from the point
of the highest leaf to the
bottom of the stem. Then
make a four-sided figure, having Fig. 6.

one of its angles at the lowest point on the right-hand
outline of the stem, and passing through the leaf
points. You know correct drawing is all measuring ;

172

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

and all surface measurement is done by triangles, —
triangulating, the surveyors call it. And if you are
beginning again in search of more accurate drawing,
this is the least wearying method, I think. To in-
scribe your subject in a rectilinear figure whose sides
touch its extremities, divide it into triangles, and use
those lines to guide your drawing. They are no part
of your drawing : you ought never to have a straight
line in your work when it's done ; you only make use of
them to determine points and distances. Well, draw
the straight lines of the figure very lightly, with a ruler
if you like ; then do the main curves, down to the inser-
tion of the leaf-stalks. You may measure with a strip of
paper; but I had rather you tried to do without first,
and corrected by it. You ought to get all the relative
distances right, at thrice the size.

Then get a real twig, something like the woodcut
(p. 174). Put it in water; pin a sheet of light-gray, or
white, or whity-brown paper behind it, so that all the leaves
may be relieved in dark on the white field. Do its outline
right : then do it in sepia, light and shade ; then you
will want to do it in greens, which I don't forbid ; only
they will vary more than you think, and want accurate
matching ; and all the shades are coloured, you know,
as well as the lights. Begin with the lightest tint
(emerald and gamboge perhaps), and cut out the forms
with darker patches of shade, lake and indigo perhaps,
for spring or dark summer greens. But you will want
other hues in. I cannot tell what they will be, and it is
the best practice you can have to find it out for your-
selves from the tree, and the paints.

If you are put out by the perspectives of the leaves1, in

1 For leaf-perspective and outline-study, see end of this letter.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

173

trying to draw very accurately, shut one eye, and draw
them as you see them with the other. We all see things
stereoscopically with two eyes, and they cannot be drawn
so : there's no help for it, I'm afraid.

Now, don't you, and May, and the stronger sisters
think you are being sacrificed to the beginners — again.
Do one of these sprays for me, and I will give you back
your free choice of work directly; but even old and
good hands must keep up their neatness and certainty
by elementary work. My notion of our course from the
first has been this. Let us begin with simple leaf out-
lines for the pencil ; and a jampot for processes of
shading. After that, skies for free use of the brush.
Then you go into tree-drawing, because that brings you
right in contact with the multiplicity of nature, the first
great difficulty. You are gradually helped out of it
by seeing how Harding did things, then how Diirer and
Turner did them ; then you are set to do bits of nature,
then at larger bits, and so on — quite ad infinitum.

Now we have got as far as foreground leaves and
branches from nature. You have all tried them your-
selves, so as to know the difficulties ; and we will see
directly how Diirer deals with them. The Turner bough
ought to have taught you some leaf perspective. And
if possible, before we go on, go to the National Gallery,
or wherever you can see leaves by Titian or Tintoret or
John Bellini or Veronese. Their backgrounds are often
made up almost entirely of leaves, and nearer wreaths
are prominent in their foregrounds. You will see how
you are now working in this direction. The vine-leaves
round the head of Bacchus in Titian's Ariadne, in the
National Gallery in London, are about the standard ex-
ample for study: the more closely one admires them, the
more may one be supposed to know about leaf-painting.

174

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

From branches and leaves to more branches and
more leaves, — that is to say to masses of foliage. You
have done them Harding's way ; but, as I said, if you
want to be like Harding, you must get beyond him, and
study nature with his help. I was in trouble about
examples to give you, as drawing them and getting them
engraved would be such a long, expensive business.
And, as I said, the Professor set all right by intrusting
me with his old book, 'Elements of Drawing.' It is
to be served up to you and the world again without
real alteration ; but with charge to insist more strongly
on outline drawing. So henceforth we shall have illus-
trations out of that book ; and what I write will be its
substance, done up in our fashion, and with comments
of our own and MacDiarmid's.

Fig. 7.

Now, to do masses of leaves, you must take a larger
bough like Fig. 7 in the Elements, — that is to say, a
spray of any tree, about eighteen inches or two feet
long, — a terminal spray ending in leaves. Fix it by the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

1 75

stem in anything that will hold it steady : let it be about
eight feet from your eye, or ten feet if you are long-
sighted. Put a sheet of whity-brown paper behind it
as before. Then draw it, every leaf, as you see it against
the white ; first in pencil, then in sepia, side on so as to
see its length or profile. Then do it again, end on to
your eye. Where the leaves cross each other, and run
into a mass, run them into a mass ; where they are
distinct in shape, do them distinctly. You ought to
make two such studies from every common tree, and of
the same bough : one drawing in profile of its length,
the other end on in perspective1. Nothing else can give
you that handy knowledge and instinctive readiness in
putting the right detail-forms down, which is everything
to sketchers or painters, and which is variously called
touch, manner, or graphic power. But, as you have got
a knowledge of perspective of close leaves and boughs,
from the last exercise and the Turner bough, remember
it as you get into more distant and larger masses.
The profile view ftiay be most important ; but you must

understand all the difference between seeing branches
in profile and in perspective. For example, fig. 8 in the
Elements gives you a spray of phillyrea seen in per-

1 The boughs should be drawn sometimes as seen above the eye,
sometimes below, to mark the difference between the upper and
under sides of leaves.

Fig. 8.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

spective, rather from above, and b the same in profile.
But it is quite easy to pluck boughs for yourselves, and
look at the sides of them and the ends of them.

Next, when you have done five or six of these draw-
ings from the larger boughs, take the best you have
done, and try how it looks at different distances. There
is a difference between a miniature view of a branch close
to you, and a full-size view of the same at a distance :
both the views may be the same size, but they look
different : you don't see the close bough as you do the
distant one1. The thinner stalks and, single leaves begin
to disappear at two or three yards, leaving a sort of
vague darkness ; the lights between the masses are less
defined, and so on. Let me say it again : you might
draw a bough close to you at half its size, and then
retire from it, to such distance as should make it appear
half its real size, and draw it with the help of your
squared glass. Then the first drawing would be a mi-
niature, the second a full-size at distance ; and they
will be quite different, or should be. You can always
measure the full size in your eye of any distant object
by holding your paper upright before you, between the
object and yourself, and marking off objects, length, &c.
on its edge. Try this a little, and you will be surprised
to see how small things really look to you.

Then try the extremities or edge-forms of full-sized
trees at different distances, in pen and sepia I should
say, with a light dash of the brush, and work from the
edges into the heart of the tree. And I think this is the
stage of tree-drawing at which most good students must
meet and contend with the mystery of quantity, as the
Professor calls it. Hitherto you have been able to draw

1 See Fig. i6, end of chapter.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

177

things as you have seen them : now you must do them
conventionally: you can't do all of anything in fact; you
must always have peculiarity and tricks in handling and
touch. 1 If leaves are intricate,' he says, ' so is moss, so
is form, so is rock-cleavage, so are fur and hair, and tex-
ture of drapery, and of clouds. And although methods
and dexterities of handling are wholly useless, if you
have not gained first the thorough knowledge of the
form of the thing ; — so that if you cannot draw a branch
perfectly, then much less a tree ; and if not a wreath
of mist perfectly, much less a flock of clouds ; and if
not a single grass-blade perfectly, much less a grass-
bank ; — yet having once got this power over decisive
form, you may safely — and must in order to perfection
of work — carry out your knowledge by every aid of
method and dexterity at hand.'

So in order to find out what method can do, you
are to look at painters' and engravers' works to see their
methods. We have begun with Harding, and one spe-
cimen of Turner. We are to copy nature in the end and
always ; but that is best done by seeing how Turner
did it first. So we must go to the engravers about it.
The club must get, and any of you must get for your-
selves if you can, the illustrated Rogers's Poems and
Rogers's Italy. They contain foliage and everything
else, done in a style which gives a real idea of Turner
on a small scale. Then one or more of the following
prints

Bolton Abbey, "]

Buckfastleigh,
Powis Castle,
Chain-bridge over Tees,

Marly, from the Keepsake,

Pont de l'Arche,
View on the Seine with avenue,

from Rivers of F

ranee.

i7?

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

I think, if you will copy some of the trees in these —
masses and individuals, at different distances, as they are
given — you will grow much stronger in face of Nature.
Keep as close as you can to the effect ; for you cannot,
of course, work touch for touch with that fine engraving.
It is so far like Nature as to approach to her mystery of
delicate texture and gradations of tone. ' The texture
of the white convent wall, and the drawing of its tiled
roof, in the vignette at p. 227 of Rogers's Poems, is as
exquisite as work can possibly be ; and it will be a great
and profitable achievement if you can at all approach
it. In like manner, if you can at all imitate the dark
distant country at p. 7, or the sky at p. 80, of the same
volume, or the foliage at pp. 12 and 144, it will be good
gain ; and if you can once draw the rolling clouds and
running river at p. 9 of the 'Italy,' or the city in the
vignette of Aosta at p. 25, or the moonlight at p. 223,
you will find that even Nature herself cannot afterwards
very terribly puzzle you with her torrents, or towers, or
moonlight.'

You are to study, and you will be glad to copy, these
line engravings for the sake of their foliage and dis-
tances. Avoid engravers' foregrounds altogether : their
distinct parallel lines are demoralizing, and wriggle about
in a meaningless way; but the rest of the plates will
teach you a great deal about masses, and their tones
at relative distances ; and, for what we are on now, the
tree-forms are delightful. I should say you had better
copy them in gray, with fine sable brushes, as like the
original as stipple will get it : one can do things so very
fine with the point of the brush, and pale colour, lightly
dried on blotting-paper. This will teach you what stip-
pling really means, and that its value is in expression —
of transparency and delicacy, and often of form also.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

179

You won't despise the engravings as mechanical : no
doubt the parallel lines are so, but the foliage forms,
which I want you to attend to, are always etched, i.e.
drawn with a free hand on a waxed plate. They show
you what real work is better than most things. The
Chain-bridge over Tees, Ludlow, and Powis have the
best foliage of all.

I must write you another letter about vegetation
in general, and say how to work it up in the winter
by pen-and-ink study, of Diirer in particular. You
learn such intricacy, and such precision at the same
time, from working at his woodcuts. The sort of thing
I am now giving you may not, I fear, suit some of the
weaker vessels among you ; not so much because they
can't do what I tell them, as because they won't. But
do you and the select band of customers cling to these
lessons, and send me them carefully done, rather than
any more Gretchens or Mignons. Miss Milton has been
very good about this, and has gained immensely in the
last four months in consequence. I don't know what
to say to that nice young person. With her voice, ear,
and passion, her line is certainly music ; and she is
getting beyond the student state in that. But I really
think, none the less, that hard drawing will do the
Susanette good, and keep her business-like and prosaic.
I wish she had to look after a house, like you or Ger-
trude Crakanthorpe. It has come to this now, that
all artists ought to be Philistines. Fellows are going off
their heads, with their symphonies and nocturns. Really
one begins to feel that the regular artist had better stick
to the real and actual while he can, and trust to the foot
of circumstance kicking him up to take his flights when
he must.

N 2

i8o

OUR SKETCHING CLUB,

Be that as it may, pen and sepia work is necessary
for all of you who wish to go as far as you can. And
that you may master it thoroughly, I commend you
to the Professor's examples, — figs. 9 to 16. Draw 11
and 12 now, also 10 for the muscular-looking trunk ;

Fig. 9.

and by draw, I mean imitate every line and touch :
you may use compasses if you like, a magnifier if you
like, tracing paper if you like, anything else whatever
you like ; but imitate these woodcuts faithfully some-
how with your own hand. Never mind how little you
do at a time, but do it thoroughly. If you will face 13,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

181

you will face anything ; and if you can do it you can do
anything in black and white. Fig. 10, facsimiled from.
Titian, is a good model for leaves in near middle-
distance or foreground. Fig. 9 is a sort of corollary
of Harding's system, showing you how to sketch, or
make notes of, various forms of growth, applying his
system of springing curves in all manner of ways1.

I shall begin again about outline in my next, though
it is to be on vegetation and trees ? there are some more

of the Professor's ideas to be insisted on : in that paper
I want to finish with tree-drawing and the methods of
learning it. You almost all know something of matching
colours and laying them on, and I do not think there is
much to undo in any of your work ; but I want you to
get a proper frame or foundation of knowledge of correct
line, form, and substance ; and of light and shade under
your colour and expressed in colour. I need not say
that knowledge will greatly affect and enlarge your ideas
about colour ; but all that will come naturally. So, now,

1 The Professor's description of it comes into my next letter.

Fig. 10.

182

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

look at these four wood-cuts, figs. 10 to 13, and do
them all in pen and sepia ; or some portion of the last,
as much as you can. Keep it by you, and do a bit
now and then. No. 11 you must do the whole of, sky
and all. It is a regular Diirer sketch from nature, giving
things as he saw them. It is in the Oxford 'Manual
of Pictorial Art' as well. Notice the trees in it, in
groups or masses. Distant trees are defined in nature,

for the most part, by the light edge of the rounded mass
of the nearer tree being shown against the dark part
of the rounded mass of a more distant tree. To draw
this properly, nearly as much work would be wanted
in each tree as in a regular jam-pot done for rounding
exercise. You have not time for that on the spot ; and
so you define your distant trees against each other by
terminal lines, as Diirer has done. 'You will find, on
copying that bit of Diirer, that every one of his lines

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

183

is prim, deliberate, and accurately descriptive as far as
it goes. It means a bush of such a size and such a
shape, definitely observed and set down ; it contains
a true signalement of every nut-tree, and apple-tree,
and higher bit of hedge, all round that village. . . .

' This use of outline, note farther, is wholly confined
to objects which have edges or limits. You can outline
a tree or a stone when it rises against another tree or
stone ; but you cannot outline folds in drapery, or waves

in water : if these are to be expressed at all, it must be
by some sort of shade ; therefore, as we shall see, no
good drawing ought to consist entirely of outline, like
Retzsch's works, for instance. You see in Durer, No.
11, why he limited himself so much to outline. He
wanted bright light all over his plain and hills, that the
dark* church and spire might bear them out more against
the dark sky; and by those shades, and the light sides
of the dark roof, the whole of the country part of the
scene is made real and sunny.' I think you must feel

Fig. 12.

1 84

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

that all that plain is in sunshine, and that it makes you

' Farewell, sweetheart,' — if that expression is a proper
one, — you'd better ask Jack. I must write May a line :
I wish I didn't neglect her so, but she never says a word
about it, — and here am I in the middle of the Sinai
Desert, getting on with the Burning Bush ; and here is
Dr. Beke discovering another Sinai. What shall I do?
If he makes out a case, we shall have to go out again,
and bump on dromedaries all the way to Akaba. I
wish she would come too : it would make Araby much
blester than I found it before ; only all the tribes of
Yemen would fight for her (have you read the skirmish
in Herman Agha, by the by?), or she would be set on
the throne of the Pharaohs, or something. I think you
would be more of a Cleopatra or Nitocris : she would

Fig.

give the strong lines of the
sky credit for dark blue. And
if you ever had to do a desert
subject, or an Egyptian or
Indian one, or even a hot bit
in Spain or Italy, — white roof
and walls in sunshine, for ex-
ample,— you would have to
use that effect, if you were
drawing it in black and white.
The essence of heat and light
anywhere is that the solid
objects are brighter that the
deep blue or heated gray sky,
in their lights. Of course their
shadows are sharp and strong
in proportion.

be great as Isis.

Ever thine,

C. C.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Letter XV. Answer by return.

My Dear C. :

Received your last letter ; and you say well,
as far as I can judge, where art is concerned. But O
dear boy ! you are only a boy after all, and don't know
that art does not go far enough, — there is love ; and
somehow you do not seem to have enough of it in you
or on you, just yet. Dear C, I have never said any-
thing about her to you before, but I have often and
often talked of you to her ; and I think the time is
coming when you must take her or leave her ; and if
you leave her it will almost break my heart. I know
I'm only a year older than you ; but I'm married and
settled, and have seen and thought more of these things,
and wasting love is like wasting life. It is a liberty my
talking to you, but not a great one, we have been such
friends. Don't care so much about your freedom, it
seems to me to be all smoking-room ; and culture is
mere priggism without tenderness ; and as for devoting
yourself to your art, why, if your art! went by the name
of Moloch or Juggernaut, and wanted victims, it would
like to have May as well as you ; and she would devote
herself to any right thing along with you. And if you
think you don't care enough for her, or she for you, —
in the first place, I know it's wrong ; and in the next,
love comes on like a tide when one is married, if only
people tell each other their hearts, — I'm sure of that
from John. I have written it, and here it goes into the
bag. I do pray it may do no harm. Good-bye : you
work hard for us, I am sure ; but don't work too hard
for your own happiness.

Ever yours,

i86

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Note by C. — I cannot leave out Fig. 1 1 in the Elements, though
it involved some statements I could not get into my letter. It is a
capital woodcut — facsimile of a sketch of Rafael's: and its chief
purpose in its place, is to illustrate the simple and straightforward
way in which he did his shading: and also to illustrate the difference

between incomplete and
complete shading. Incom-
plete shading (which may
be better in many kinds
of work than complete)
is when you shew your
lines, complete is when
you don't. In a perfect
(i.e. fully-finished) draw-
ing, no lines are promi-
nently visible, but objects
are rounded as if by the
brush. In an imperfect,
or rather incomplete one
you shew your lines, as
Durer, and Leech, and
Alfred Rethel do : and
then it will be better for
you to vary their direc-
tions according to the
forms. Titian's tree (No.
10) shews the lines, and
he has drawn them ac-
cordingly, in curves round
the trunk so as to help to
shew its anatomy as well
as shade ; so you would
do in any etching work :
making every line tell
is one of the beauties
of etching, as a confes-
sedly incomplete style
of work, having for its
object rapid record, excellent but unfinished, and unfinishable. But
Rafael's sketch is unfinished in another sense. He has only put
down what he meant to do afterwards completely, with brush, or

in Elements).

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

I87

pencil, or chalk, not shewing his lines at all. So he did not think
about the direction of his shading lines, but scratched in the rounding
forms of the Saint's head and drapery with the easiest straight lines
he could draw, from the right downwards to the left. You have
been taught also to do your shading by unmeaning crossed lines and
stipple, as at Fig. 31. But in doing Nos. 11, 12, and the others, you
must make your shade lines tell in a graphic way.

And notice how the face and throat here are darkened towards
the light : in the drapery of the arms, also : and just remember that

Fig. 1 5.

shade is deepest where light falls steepest, and that where the rays
are first fully intercepted will infallibly be the darkest part of your
shadow. In drawing an orange in light and shade, the little rough-
ness of the rind is best expressed at the edge of the light ; because
there all the little excrescences meet the rays and intercept them,
and so assert themselves in the strongest shadow.

1 See p. 35.

i88

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

This is a good example of leaf-perspective at three distances ; you
will observe that as soon as it is removed a few yards from the eye,
as at (£) it becomes a dark line ; and again at (c) it is almost unintel-
ligible ; and this accounts for the great uncertainty and difficulty of
the outlines of leaf-masses in middle-distance. I called your attention
to this at p. 135, with reference to the Turner bough, Fig. 5.

Fig. 16.

If you want a set of simple outline-subjects, you cannot do better
than choose out a set of full-grown leaves of various trees ; dry them
flat, and gum them on cards. Copy their outlines, stems, and principal
ribs exactly, and your command of line will increase daily : — besides
which you will learn more and more of leaf-form, and observe more
and more about subtle curvature. The mid-rib of a leaf looks very
straight, and never is straight, and nothing can be better for you to
draw.

CHAPTER X.

Letter XVL May to Florence.

Oxford, December.

My Dear Floy:

I suppose this fine bright frost prevails at
Hawkstone. How jolly it must be for the horses to get
a little rest after the life we have led them ! My friend
Gerty Crack is quite indefatigable, and we have had
gallops every day. I am quite delighted with her, and
am so very glad you have asked her up north ! you will
not be disappointed, I'm sure. Well, we made use of
the first bright winter day by running up to town to
see the Landseers ; and then, by way of contrast, we
went to see Sternchase's great picture. It seems doubtful
taste, I know ; but there we were, we had to get back
in the evening, and it was see it or not see it : so we
went. By we, I mean Gerty and myself, the Praeses,
Charles, and Mr. Ripon : I don't like to call him by his
name of Dick, and Rip is as bad. The Praeses made
a capital chaperon ; and you will be gratified to hear
that our behaviour was exemplary throughout. I must
write something to you while it is all fresh. The men
did all the talking, of course. Happily one can't hear
one's self speak in the railway, or any one else ; and so we
escaped with two horrible puns, — one about a Coalition

190

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

of pitmen on strike, and the other about Good Templars
being sad Boheamians ; and the Praeses said something
rather odd about the stages of human development,
from the Ascidian into the Utilitarian. Well, we
escaped unscrunched from the train, and went to Bur-
lington House in three hansoms. I really think it
would be a good thing for the public, if they would
exhibit some leading painter in this way every year,
dead or alive : we all thought so much would come to
be understood of the man and his methods, and their
progress, in the technical way, and so much more, too,
about the real character of his mind and works, and the
phases of thought and feeling he may have gone
through. So said Charley, who always considers pic-
tures as books. He is very good to me, when he is not
thinking of Guinevere or Iseult, or Theseus and Ariadne,
or the horses, — and I am so dull too. I wish we both
cared more, or showed it more.

But he is quite right, I'm sure ; for one does feel the
contrast between that great incongruous Vanity Fair of
an Academy Exhibition, and a quiet walk through one
great man's doings. He certainly was a great man (oIol
vvv ftporoL da-L, the Praeses said, and I've got him to write
it down for me all right with the accents. I am glad to
send you some Greek from Oxford, warranted genuine.
I believe it means taking the lot all round, or something
to that effect ; and Charles and the Vicar won't tell
me anything else : it can't be naughty, at all events).
Charles said he never had been so pleased, without
being worried, in an exhibition, and that one really
could learn something. But think, if we could have the
chief living men annually here for six weeks or so, two
or three at a time, perhaps, — collections of their works,
I mean, — say Phoebus or Hermitage, or Tingrind or

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I9I

Baldwyn, and, still more, De Vair and Brownjones.
What a thing it would be for them to be able to explain
themselves, and show what they have been doing, or
trying to do, all along! and how any sensible person
would like to understand their progress year by year
from their boy-drawings ! Technically, in particular,
one would see how a man developed his powers and
found out what he wanted to do, and how to do it, and

perhaps hid himself justice This is a tirade

sustained between Charles and Mr. Ripon principally,
and now I shall try to do the rest of the talk, as we
talked it, only making it very laconic. R. and C. stand
for those two, P. and G. for Praeses and Gerty, and M.
for me, or May, whichever you like.

R. — Well, did Landseer do himself justice ?

C. — Made a pot of money, and enjoyed himself
-exceedingly.

M. — That's your notion, I know, of course ; but you
don't try to work it out much, Charles.

P. — No : he's on a better line than that, after all.
But, Cawthorne, do you think Landseer was mercenary,
or too much of a court or sporting painter?

C. — No. I look on the commissioned portraits as
nothing at all. He was a true naturalist and a great
workman ; but I wish he'd stuck to such subjects as the
Random Shot, or the Bears. He did too many pictures
of swells ; but he did them honestly, and as well as he
could.

R. — Perhaps those best ideas don't come to one every
day.

C. — Though they tarry, wait for them, and meanwhile
work away from Nature. Draw rocks in a stream, as
like as ever you can, form and colour, and let the ideas
come as they're given.

192

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Here Gerty looked at Charles, quite unconscious, you
know, but in a way which might have made me jealous.
I rather wish it had. And then she said, Isn't that the
same as the advice in ' Modern Painters ' about Eldad
and Medad, \ Go about your hard camp-work, and the
gift will come to you'?

P. — Quite so, Gerty ; but that is a tremendous subject
we can't go into now. It opens the whole question of
what inspiration really means. Go on, Cawthorne or
Ripon (the Praeses never cuts any name short, except
his daughter's, and I may say mine : but nobody ever
called me Margaret, that I remember).

R. — Well, graphics are grave, and life is real, and life
is earnest, and all that. I should think he might have
tried harder to get Swelldom to ask him for his own
subjects. He never worked landscape as he could and
should have done. Look at the 'Deer Pass,' and that
glorious small oil-painting of ' Rocks by Loch Awen,' —
that place under Cairn Gorm, — and then the chalk
drawing, 'Avalanche and Deer!' How could the man
who did that in a couple of hours ever give weeks to
Mr. Van Humbug and his menagerie?

C. — True enough ; and then the Provencal shepherd
and his prayer for rain, with the flock bleating all round
him before the crucifix. (Then he turned round to me,
and asked me what I thought of that, and looked at me
with all his eyes, quite grave and bright, across his
brown beak and dark beard, looking very handsome,
certainly.) I had felt inclined to say my prayers too,
and so I told him.

P. — One may make a note of that, I think, as decisive
of Landseer's highest power, — the highest aim and the
greatest success.

C. — Moreover that picture is the grandest south-of-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

193

France landscape, beyond all price, and certainly, to
my eye, beyond French landscape-painting. Was he
thinking of that, now, or of the shepherd's prayers, and
the flocks?

R. — Goodness gracious ! don't ask : there the thing
is, quite perfect in art and import too. Perhaps he
didn't know himself; he most likely saw or heard of
some such thing as actually happening ; and a man of
his feeling would have caught the idea at once. It is so
very happy, because it brings round all the scriptural
symbolisms so perfectly.

M. — You mean the Good Shepherd in the Catacombs,
and the Church's sheep in the mosaics ?

R. — Yes, and on so many of the sarcophagi.

C. — Well, I don't suppose Landseer knew anything
about catacombs or mosaics ; but he must have gone
over all the ideas of the Shepherd of Israel in painting
that. I never use the expression 'sacred picture'; but
that one seems really to have the effect which such a
thing ought to have.

G. — Don't they say that the shepherd was a heathen
subject of decoration?

P. — No doubt, like the vine. It seems pretty clear
the first Christians were glad to adopt both images, and
give their own symbolic meaning to both. Why, the
title 'Shepherd of People' is Homeric. I dare say it
goes back to the earliest Aryan time, when you would
have been called my milk-maid. Do you know ' daughter'
means that?1

G. — Very good meaning too ; and I can milk pretty
fairly.

C. — Well, then, there is a connection, after all, be-

1 See Max Mtiller's Chips from a German Workshop, vol. i.
O

194

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

tween Landseer and Sternchase, and we were not so
wrong in going straight from one to the other. It's
an excuse after the fact ; but I don't feel any the
worse.

P. — Nonsense ! don't be punctilious. Besides, it is so
interesting to compare the two men and their lives, —
one all enjoyment and flattery and sport, and swells,
I suppose Fm to say ; and the other all high thinking,
and low feeding, and hard work, like a soul in pain, you
once said, Ripon.

R. — Yes, I did say it, and it is so. He's gone
through a thing or two — here that fixed, abstracted
look came over him that you know of; and he said in
a dry, quiet way, I think he takes refuge in that severe
labour of all his painting ; it's the best thing many men
have to do.

There was rather a silence for a moment. We all
knew Rip understood what he was saying pretty well.
(That was what made him and Sternchase such friends
always, — that they had suffered the same thing.) Then
he went on again, It would make a good subject for an
essay, — whether, and how far, any sport or hunter-craft
can be a good subject for art, or a fit one. It's a doubt-
ful question, and the Professor all but says No.

C. — It's almost the same thing to ask how far aristo-
cratic country-life in England can ever develop any
good art.

P. — Well ; you are the man to try : you are a bloated
aristocrat in Yorkshire, and I think you are developing
something; and your clubs ought to bring out some-
body. I've seen some drawings of yours, Miss Lang-
dale, and I thought them quite real art.

M. — Why, I think Charles and I see a great deal of
towns and middle life as well— quiet life, you know ; and

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

195

I like Mr. Sternchase quite as well as any of my grand
acquaintances ; but he is very keen about hunting and
shooting.

C. — I don't think a taste for the chase in general is
specially aristocratic ; and it is certainly poetical in
certain conditions of society, — Swiss chamois-hunting,
for instance.

R. — The real difference between the two men is that
of aim, after all. One gave himself up to circumstances,
and patrons, and high country-life, and its sports. How
could he help it? and could we have helped doing the
same ? And the other conquers his fate more, and lives
a life of great purposes apart. It's like comparing a
Swiss aiguille to Ben-y-breac and its corries.

P. — Well, Charles, you are in good enough company,
if you can get in half-way between the great naturalist
and the great master ; you must never think of giving
in now.

C. — I don't ; not just yet, at least. But I'm not like
either of those men, and one must be rather discon-
tented with one's own doings. Lionardo was : it's the
regular thing. At best, one can follow in the body
of the pack.

G. — May and I were talking about that discontent
with one's own work yesterday. Of course, we ought
all to feel it ; but I don't think Sir E. Landseer can
have had much trouble in that way : he seems to have
done everything so easily.

C. — Ah, he didn't feel it so himself in working from
Nature ; and he never could have got up to that execu-
tion without a deal of disappointment. I think he
shows more graphic power, and more entire indifference
%to oil-painting as his science, than anybody I know of.

P. — Expound, painter, expound.

O %

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

C. — Why, compare his work with Sternchase's. He,
the last, is trying to do two things, — to do justice to a
great idea by his science (technical skill you may call it,
but it is founded on knowledge ; call it science, as you
would boxing, if you like) ; and he wants always to
increase the range and power of his science, that he may
have the more to dedicate to his great idea, and that he
may push the thing on for those who come after him.
Landseer is a good naturalist and hunter : he gets his
drawing right from sheer graphic power, and the coup
d'ceil that can fix an idea of motion in his own brain ; —
he is a colourist from his happy out-door life of observa-
tion ; — and he is poet enough to be possessed by sub-
jects and imaginations of his own, and those of the
strongest. But all he cares for in his science is just
what suits his purpose at the time. He does not want
to be a master of painting, as a Venetian or Florentine
might : he wants to do Lady So-and-So's terrier's back
bristles exactly like bristles ; and no more. He didn't
care for painting, and he wasn't one of us. He was
much greater and healthier and better understood, I
dare say ; but he shirked the hard work, and he blinked
the high aims. Bad patronage does a deal of harm ;
some one ought to be whipped for every tedious genre
subject or affected portrait. (Here the Praeses said
solemnly, ' Excoriare aliquis* and we all laughed) ; then
Charley went back to his first saying, that Landseer
should have believed more in his own genius, and led
his patrons with him : if he hadn't thought so much of
shooting, and staying about at big houses, he might
have done them and himself immortal honour.

P. — Ah, that's a great saying of your friend, the
Professor's, that he wonders not so much at what men
suffer, but at what they lose ; and I go on to wonder at

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197

what they don't care about losing, or know they've lost.
What might have been, now, if one of these men had
been petted a little less, and the other a little more ?

R. — I am afraid we owe it to Landseer that one can
only think of Highland scenery now, in connection with
deer and grouse. Nobody seems to connect the High-
lands with history, or poetry, or antiquity, or anything
but autumn holidays. I used to look up Gaelic tradition
a little, but was chaffed out of it — mere sentimental-
ism, cockneyfied, and so on. And Highlanders them-
selves seemed to think I'd no business to be interested
in their clans, or in themselves, as a Saxon who wasn't
rich enough to take a moor at a fancy rent.

P. — Sentiment, sentimentalism, and grouse-rents, —
very different things ; but here the guard insisted on our
changing for ' Haucksphut1,' as he called it, with an
evident anxiety to show how the word might be spelt
without one of the conventional letters. Ingenious,
wasn't it?

I think I must go back to Rothercliffe soon, as Sister
Marian wants a holiday rather badly, and I can help
with her work. I have had a great deal of fun, and
been quite the lady for ever so long, and mental tonics
are necessary. We have done a good deal of Turner
here ; and Charles says I am much stronger. He is off
to his great exhibition picture to-morrow : we are both
like Erin's children, — so good and so cold.

Ever your own

Private and exclusive

May.

1 Oxford.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Letter XVII. Charles to Flora.

My Dear Floy :

I told you in my last that I would try to
finish off the subjects of vegetation and tree-drawing
in this letter, but it can't be done so shortly. I only
think of what I tell you as an introduction to drawing
from Nature; that is to say, as likely to give you a
notion what to look for in Nature, and some rule of
natural selection, I mean of choosing, from the infinity
of Nature, what you ought to put down. You can't put
down all. Different persons look for and see different
things, more or less correctly ; and he does best who
gets down the greatest amount of the greatest truths.
Now we have done much definite drawing, and we are
going on to the indefinite and mysterious. Single
leaves for outline and curve ; jam-pot for light and
shade ; skies and clouds to learn use of the brush, — now
we come to complication and mystery. We have done
single leaves and grass blades : we want to do foliage
and turf, and we find them in masses ; that is to say,
in organized forms, of which you can see the organiza-
tion, but only a part of the individualities which com-
pound them. Now, any disorderly mess of lines, like the
worst sort of modern woodcutting, is mysterious enough
in a sense ; but your work ought to be a mystery worth
unravelling. And the vegetation in Diirer's woodcuts
is exactly what you ought to work from, in order to get
mystery and organization together. Figs. 11, 12, 13, are
capital examples ; but any very clear, distinct photo-
graph of grasses or ferns will help you, if you will only
take little enough of it at a time, and draw that in pen-
and-sepia outline, giving a little shading, of course,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

where you want it, as you go on ; for folds and rounded
undulations cannot be given in pure outline, and con-
sequently pure outline in the strictest sense ought never
to be enforced or practised1. But in all this practice,
make out as much as you can, and don't go in for
intricacy, but for accuracy. And if you can succeed in
being accurate, and yet get any of the glittering con-
fusion of Nature into your careful work, then you are
forming a landscape style of your own, original and of
the best kind ; and nobody can take it from you.

Now, the mystery of Nature and of Diirer and of
Turner comes pretty much to this to the draughtsman,
— that the form is there, and you don't see what it
really is till you draw it. I began to copy Fig. 12 for
you just now. I took the square stone first, and I saw
there were leaves by it, — large plantain or dock ; then,
by the time I had done the outline of the stone, I saw
there were three lower leaves, rather faint-looking, and
the point of another below, and four strong upright-
growing ones more. The dock grows like the tree,
springing from the fountain of life in its stem, you see.
Then I noticed the perspective of the lower square
stone, and saw how it leads into the picture ; then that
most delicate wild-parsley leaf on the right above the
stone : in short, I had been drawing some time before
I fully understood what I had to do. But, when that is
understood, you are far on towards doing it. Without
such practice in looking at things as this kind of copy-
ing gives you, you will not see enough in Nature to
produce a good drawing. But acquiring this power of
sight really ought not to be a matter of many days to
you. Practice is everything to the eye ; but all your

1 Note and Appendix.

200

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

eyes are well enough practised already, for you can all
play the piano, and do needlework. I go all wrong in
this sort of work for the first day ; just as one can never
see one's fly for the first day's salmon-fishing. But
when you have done the forms right, so as to get a
stock of them into your mind, it will surprise you to
find your rapid work improve wonderfully, and get
much more piquant and characteristic in eager bits,
when you let your hand fly. For accurate work accumu-
lates right ideas ; and they will stream out of your
fingers'-ends sometimes, in the brighter seasons — you
don't know how, nor shall we ever.

Now once more for our system, such as it is, roughly
taken. First, large single leaf forms1, for accurate line ;
then jam-pot for rounding in light and shade ; then
washing in skies, for free use of the water-colour brush
in covering a flat space ; then foliage and vegetation
to introduce the real difficulties of Nature. You have
not as yet, perhaps, attained Mr. Squeers's deep per-
ception of what a rum 'un she is ; but everybody can see
and draw from foliage, &c, and then, as we have had
before, it not only shows you difficulties, but points to
try for, and leading lines which give character. We
had something about character in portraits of men and
women ; well, there are characteristic lines or marks in all
other things, which will give grace and vital truth to your
portraiture of things, if you dwell on them. They are
always expressive of the past history and present action
of the thing. They show, in a mountain, first how it
was built up or heaped up, then how it is being worn
away, and from what quarter the wildest storms beat
on it. In a tree, they show what kind of fortune it has

1 Note and Appendix.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

201

had to endure from its childhood ; how troublesome
trees have come in its way, and pushed it aside, and
tried to strangle or starve it ; where and when kind
trees have sheltered it, and grown up lovingly along
with it, bending as it bent ; what winds torment it
most ; what boughs of it behave best, and bear most
fruit, and so on. In a wave or cloud, these leading
lines show the run of the tide and of the wind, and the
sort of change which the water or vapour is at any
moment enduring in its form, as it meets shore, or
counter-wave, or melting sunshine. 'Now, remember,'
says the Professor, ' nothing distinguishes great men
from inferior men more than their always knowing, in
life or art, the way things are going. Your dunce thinks
they are standing still, and draws them all fixed ; your
wise man sees they change, and draws them accord-
ingly,— the animal in its movement, the tree in its
growth, the cloud in its course, the mountain in its
decay. Try always, whenever you look at a form, to
see the lines in it which have had power over its past
fate, and will have power over its futurity. The leafage
round the foot of a stone pine or Scotch fir (Fig 9) from
Sestri, near Genoa, has all its sprays thrust away by the
root in their first budding ; and they spring out in every
direction round it, as water splashes when a heavy stone
is thrown into it. Then, when they have got clear of
the root, they begin to bend up again ; some of them,
being little stone pines themselves, have a great notion
of growing upright if they can ; and this struggle of
theirs to recover their straight road towards the sky,
after being obliged to grow sideways in their early years,
is the effort that will mainly influence their destiny, and
determine if they are to be crabbed, forky pines, striking
from that rock of Sestri, whose clefts nourish them, with

202

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

bared red lightning of angry arms towards the sea; or
if they are to be goodly and solemn pines, with trunks
like pillars of temples, and the purple burning of their
branches sheathed in deep globes of cloudy green.'

In trees in general, and bushes large and small,
perhaps the first general rule one notices is, that though
the boughs spring irregularly, at all sorts of angles, they
tend more upwards, and less downwards, as they get
near the top of the tree. Hence a plumy character and
aspect of unity in all the branches, which is essential to
their beauty. They all share in one great fountain-like
impulse : each has its definite curve and path to take,
and all together form a great outer curve, whose cha-
racter and proportion are peculiar for each species.
Observe, a tree doesn't grow as at a, anyhow, but as at c,

a b
Fig. 17.

in its simplest possible type ; or as at b, showing the
full intention and idea of the tree, which wants to carry
out all its minor branches to the bounding curve, so that
they shall all get to air and light in plenty. And the

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203

branches each try for the bounding curve in the same
way ; so that the branch-type isn't anyhow, but so as to
take its proper share in the great curve, as at b.

I observe that some members of the club have a care-
less way of drawing boughs with successive sweeps of
the pen or brush, one hanging on to the other, that way

Fig. 18.

— which is about the worst conceivable. But all un-
meaning tricks of hand are to be avoided everywhere.
I compared a rather drooping bough seen from below,
to your hands held palm downwards, as in piano-playing.
If you hold your hands out before a glass, palm up-
wards, and with open fingers, it will give you an idea
of the upward ramification of a branch, as the palm-
downward position gives you the action of the lower
boughs in cedars, and such other spreading trees.

Fig. 19 is a specimen-sketch of Turner's from Nature,
which shows you how to work when you have not time
to put any colour on ; or when you can only run a
little sepia or gray over the trees, to give a notion
of their pitch of shade against the sky and each
other. It is particularly nice for you to copy ; for the
trees are like some of Harding's : they are specially
graceful, absolutely free from any mannerism, and as
rapidly done as his hand could go it. And there is
not a line or a touch to be spared ; not one scratch,
I do declare, which is not graphic, and descriptive of
a fact, or part of a fact. Look at the lower bushes!

Fig. 19.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

205

There's radiation and spring, and life, and vegetable hap-
piness, whatever that may be. And the upper trees — what
makes them graceful ? The plumy toss of the branches,
and their spring from the stem: you can how see the
fountain of sap rushes up through them, and it is their
centre. Then, when you copy it, you will feel how all
the touches group together, and take you into and across
and all about the woodcut, as a composition. Look at
the lines which mark the ground, and how the water
runs off the hill ; and at the figures on the top, which
show it is no great height, only a swell of the chalk
down ; and note the regular steps made by successive
climbers, who, you see, have all got blown at nearly
the same place, and worked off to the left. If you
want to learn how to express distance and surface in
flat country or gentle slopes, the hill and ground part of
this woodcut is a perfect lesson ; and see how you are
led away into the distance by the comparative sizes of
trees, much as by Diirer in Fig. 11.

Then this sketch shows you how to put in figures and
adjuncts. Most of the club seem to do it rather by
guesswork, or by mere feeling for colour, because a
strong dark, or a blue patch, or a red patch, is wanted
here or there. But see how the figures come in here.
The dog is under the boy, and his back is in a springing
curve : the boy's is actually in springing action as he
tries to scramble on to the parapet : all that gives spring
to the trees above by repeating their curve, or, in other
words, by dwelling on the idea of springiness to your
eye. So the farmer and his stick almost double the
height of the stems. That is what I shall have to talk
of hereafter as the law of repetition, when we go into
composition. If people don't see a thing when you first
say it in your drawing, why, say it again in it, some-

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

where else, and again, with variations, if necessary. And,
besides over all this, there is a grand set of curves in the
picture, which have their origin in the dog's tail, and
sweep over the trees ; but we must put that off also.

This looking for guiding-lines, as I said before, is the
first great thing to make your drawing graphic or cha-
racteristic. Take an old house-roof (almost all old things
are worth drawing, because of their history and its outer
signs). A bad draughtsman will only see the tiles in
a spotty irregular order all over : a good one will see
the bends of the under-timbers were they are weakest,
and the weight tells on them most ; and where the rain-
water runs off fast, and keeps the tiles clean, and where
it lodges, and feeds the moss ; and he will be careful,
however few slates he draws, to mark the way they
bend together toward those hollows where the roof is
giving, and by which you see its fate. Just so in ground ;
there is always the direction of the run of water to be
noticed, — how it rounds the earth, and cuts it into hol-
lows ; and generally there are traces of bedded or other
internal structure in any bank or height worth drawing.
Notice in No. 19 the depression in the hill marked by
the footsteps, and the hollow where water runs down
from left to right, behind the roots of the trees.

This is what I mean by going for the facts in all
your sketching. It is not dull or commonplace to do
so, because the facts are often striking, and still oftener
pathetic. I should say there is something honourable,
and so on, in the decay of an old house-roof and its
associations.

Now, in your light-and-shade sketches from Nature
take this as an outline model. First get your sizes and
distances and main lines in pencil-lines like these ; then
run some gray or sepia oyer them for pitch of tone,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

207

and masses of light and shade ; let dry ; and then,
over what is left of the pencil-marks, use the quill-
pen, to make it graphic, and tell about the facts. That
leaf is the main one ; that bough is the leader ; and this
touch means so much of it, point, side, or surface, as the
case may be. Don't do anything in a general way.
Nothing is general : things look like what they are like.

There really is no receipt for doing anything. Some
of you ask how to do grass ? I'll trouble them for what
sort of grass? — thyme on the downs? or sedges by a
stream? or mowing grass in June ? or Alpine grass, half
lilies? or Craven pasture, half heather ? The only dodge
I know is the old one, — to go by the shadows between
the stems, as Durer does. Grass always grows in tufts,
more or less. The prominent stems and leaves will be
your guiding-lines in light ; and, if you draw them as
you see them, you will find a shorthand to express
the crowded vegetation behind : that is Diireresque or
Turneresque drawing. Or you may ' do grass ' very nicely
at a little distance, by giving the undulations of the
ground in green patches of shade with jagged edges
(taking care not to make them too dark at first); but
that, after all, is drawing by characteristic lines. You
will leave similar fringes of light, of course, and it is
easy to make them like grass edges ; but, the better
they fit the characteristic slope of the ground, the more
grassy they will look. Look at the drawing in Fig. 20,
or any of the grassy foregrounds in the engravings, and
try to leave your edge-forms in light, painting the dark
sharply up to them, as you would do the bright edge
of a round tree against a mass of shade.

If you happen to have the Oxford ' Art Manual1,' there

1 Macmillan, Oxford University Press.

208

OUR SKETCHING CLUB,

is another good example of tree and vegetation lines, —
Cephalis and Procris, the etched lines from the Liber
Studiorum plate, before it was prepared for mezzotint.
If you will draw either that, or Fig. 19 and the others,
and draw from Nature in that way, that's all I want, and
will be all you will want.

As a sufficient guide in putting light and shade over
your lines, you must study Turner's Liber Studiorum.
The plates have been very fairly done in autotype, and
one or two of this list1 will do as examples for your
work from Nature. You might add Rizpah or the Mer
de Glace to it, because they will widen and deepen your

1 Elements of Drawing, p. 132. If not one of those in List 1, any-
other you can get ; except those in List 2, which are useless.

LIST

Grande Chartreuse.
(Esacus and Hesperie.
Cephalus and Procris.
Source of Arveiron.
Ben Arthur.
Watermill.
Hindhead Hill.
Hedging and Ditching.
Dumblane Abbey.
Morpeth.
Calais Pier.

Pembury Mill.

Little Devil's Bridge.

River Wye (not Wye and

Severn).
Holy Island.
Clyde.

LaufFenbourg.
Blair Athol.
Alps from Grenoble.
Raglan Castle.

The Liber Studiorum is a collection of dark-brown engravings
done by Turner, or from his drawings and under his eye : they contain
something like universal instruction for landscape, but must be drawn
to be understood. The following plates are, however, useless. (List 2.)

I. Scene in Italy ; goats and trees. 2. Interior of church. 3. Bridge
and trees ; figures on left, one playing a pipe. 4. Ditto, with tam-
bourine. 5. Ditto, Thames, high trees, and square tower. 6, 7.
Tenth and fifth plagues of Egypt. 8. Rivaulx Abbey. 9. Wye and
Severn. 10. Scene with castle in centre, cows under trees on left.

II. Martello towers. 12. Calm.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

209

estimate of the passionate and tragical power of land-
scape, in hands capable of true passion and deep tragedy.
But one or two of these plates will be enough, and give
you work enough ; for this is the way you must do them.
They consist, you know, of firmly etched lines with
mezzotint shade laid over them. First, then, trace the
etched lines very carefully at the window, or with
transparent paper ; trace them again on smooth draw-
ing-paper; then set the original before you, and go
over the whole with your pen, working from the original
with the greatest care to correct any exaggeration or slip
you may have made in the tracing. And do this when
you are fresh, and with your full attention, leaving off
when you are tired, and never doing too much at a time.
Reinforce your first lines till they really represent Tur-
ner's ; and then you will see, as in the bough we began
with, how his lines prepare you for his light and shade.
Then, for the fourth time, do some part, or the whole, of
the plate again on drawing-paper ; and put on the light
and shade in any brown that matches the plate, with
a fine sable. Use it like a pencil after the first light
coat of tint, and cross-hatch and stipple till you have
got Turner's gradations. Don't begin with the sky,
I think, but with something which has lines you can
go by. Only get a square inch of this sort of thing
right, and you can do anything in light and shade.
It really is worth any of your utmost efforts : it is very
difficult ; but I don't think people really learn to exert
themselves till they have come to grief a good many
times; and nothing is more strange in art than the
way everything begins to go right, and all materials
and tools seem to favour you, after one difficult thing
has been well done.

You ought, moreover, to have a photograph (as I

210 OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

think I have said) of some favourite landscape-subject
of your own, — high hills and a village, or some picturesque
town in middle distance, and some calm water ; and if
possible, a stream with stones in it. Copy that, or parts
of it, in the manner of the Liber, with brush and pen.
And here please observe, that on any Swiss, or Scottish,
or Lakes or Dales expedition, you ought to look out for
a few photographs of pet places which you have drawn
yourself : that is most important, to compare your sketch
from Nature with her record of herself. In copying the
photograph, get all the gradations you can. You can't
get them all ; but every hour of attention at such
work is so much new strength to work from Nature.
You may use gray if you like it better than brown, or
brown and gray together, perhaps. Do it a little at
a time, rather than hurriedly. Pen over pencil in firm
outline, with the strongest darks shaded in bold lines,
crossed, if you like. Then the sepia or gray tones, dark-
ened to the right pitch ; then all the finer penwork ; and
take out the high lights with fine brush and blotting-
paper, or a sharp knife. Try working against time. See
what you can do in half an hour, an hour, or two or
three ; always getting full depth of light and shade, and
taking the difference of time out in finishing the parts.
When you can do this well (granting sufficient power
of correct outline), you are fit to work from Nature in
light and shade, on landscape or any other subject.

Then, as to the sort of work, or amount of finish you
ought to attempt, according to time. First, if you are
not limited, do a perfect light-and-shade study in gray
and brown, with all the facts drawn, and none of the
gradations omitted. Second, you may be pressed for
time : in that case, make up your mind about the effect of
the whole, and make a rapid study of that first ; — of the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

211

effect, that is to say, how you will have the facts. That
scene is to be like that in your thoughts henceforth ; un-
less it be till you do it again in colour ; — that is the effect
of the scene on you, in masses of light and shade, — your
general impression of it all. Do that quickly in mass ;
then make another Diireresque sketch in hard pencil, or
pen and colour, and get in all the facts you possibly can
in the time. Also go nearer, or quite up to, any peculiarly
interesting part, and make a nearer memorandum of that :
it will often be a key to the detail of the rest, and explain
what things mean in your most distant drawing, — whether
you knew at the farther distance what they were or not.
Soft pencilling washed over with gray is, perhaps, the
easiest and nicest way of doing your study of effect.
Lights will come out pleasantly with the brush while
the gray is still wet ; but be careful not to take off
too much. All this on white paper only. Till you are a
consummate worker, you had better use gray paper in
the studio only, or in copying Turner, or other works done
on the same. His gray body-colours are most beautiful
and instructive subjects to copy, for the strongest of
you ; and working carefully at them is the thing of all
others to introduce you to oil-painting.

Third, if you are to take notes of a scene, altogether
against time, do a good pencil outline you can't mistake ;
then wash over all with your lightest gray, as if you were
beginning a jam-pot ; then keep your head if you can, and
go at it hard. Dash on the dark masses first ; then try to
take off or add colour while it is wet, till you get the inter-
mediate tones. You may scratch forms in nicely on the
wet with the wrong end of your brush, or a smooth-
pointed stylet ; or take the brightest lights out with the
corner of a sponge, or scratch them off with a knife (sea
foam will do well that way) ; but then, in the last few

P %

212

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

minutes, when your paper is covered, take to the pen,
and mark your outlines in vigorously, as in the Liber
Studiorum. This kind of work seems specially necessary
for some of the hardest still-life workers, and steadiest
copyists in the club. Deliberate exactness is much, but
it is not all, and can't do everything ; not the things we
want most to do sometimes. You know what it is to
have to tackle a great cumulus cloud, or an on-coming
thunder-storm, or sheet of rain, or some odd set of
striking shadows. You must learn, in a sense, to shoot

Fig. 20.

flying as well as sitting. Somebody would not try to
draw a thrush for me the other day, 'because the bird
wouldn't stand still to be drawn.' That's art-school all
over ; but it will not make a draughtsman from Nature.
You must learn to use the inner eye, the imagination
or memory; I'm sure- I don't know which of them it is
of the two : but this is what it does, — to give you a
vision of the bird, or cloud, or what not, as you mean
to have him in your picture. To that vision you ought
to adhere steadily: your brain ought to see from the
first, and with a glance, what your hand is to do in the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

213

end ; and your technical knowledge ought always to be
able to tell the hand what it is to do next throughout the
processes of completion. Minute copying may bring on
slow habits, and that way of always groping after a
motionless copy, which often disables the regular art-
student from doing anything like a picture. I remember
reading men at Ch. Ch., who had brains enough for a
lesson, as old Latchford said, but hardly enough for a
book or a subject ; and just as
many art-students seem to be
equal to a copy or study of still
life, who will never make anything
of a picture, or represent real life.
They can draw a cast of a horse
perfectly, but cannot do old Cata-
pult sweeping a brook. So you
must sometimes study for speed
and decision, while in a general
way your practice is all for ac-
curacy and tenderness of touch.
You must learn decision, to know
what you want to do, and do it ;
and nothing can teach it so
well as these //^-drawings, so
called.

Then, once more, it will be worth ever so much to you
to get into a habit of noting the shapes of shadows, —
cast-shadows, I mean, not rounded shade of structure
or form. I must have told you, in looking over the club
portfolios, that light or sunshine is only to be had by
sharpness, and defined edges of shadow ; and, of course,
if the edges are to be defined, they oughtn't to be defined
wrong. They are always odd-looking things; but in
distance or middle distance, in fact, one recognizes things

Fig. 21.

214

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

chiefly by their shadows ; and, in fact, one sees more
of the shadow than the substance. Turner's distances
seem full of confused touches with odd shapes, and with-
out much meaning, when you first look at them ; but,
when you begin to copy and really see into them, they
are full of meaning: they are all real and accurately-
done shadows of actual detail. Fig. 20 and 21 are a
capital example of an Alpine bridge at four different
distances, which illustrates this wonderfully well.

Fig. 22.

Now as to your tools. An F and HB pencil ; and al-
ways carry a white-paper note-book. But always wash
your pencil things lightly over with some tint, if you
want to keep them : it is so tiresome to see all one's
clear lines and edges of shade rub out into nothing, and
all one's darks grow grubby and shiny like a fire-grate !
There is a model note-book in the gibeciere I got you ;
and it becomes you very much : so you have two artistic
reasons for wearing it. May looks the chatelaine all over
in her's.

To finish up about foliage and vegetation. I said
a good deal about the Professor's law of radiation and law
of individuality while I was on Harding. The prevailing

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

*x5

radiation and springing ovoid curves of Harding's sys-
tem must be reconciled somehow with the individual
capricious life of tfre separate leaves ; and you must
always beware of monotony of touch, and nonsense
drawing. His example (Fig. 22) gives you a sense of
radiation, if you look pretty hard for it ; but the first
thing that strikes you about it is, that every leaf is going
just his own way. There are wandering lines mixed
with the radiating ones, and radiating lines with the
wild ones ; and you may have ever such freedom of
hand, and firm touch, and clear touch, and all that ; but
you can't draw that example without time and pains,
and following leaf after leaf. Well, there is a third thing

Fig. 23.

besides these two laws of radiation and of liberty : there
is mystery. The confusion of light and reflection comes
upon you as soon as you begin to do a spray a little way
off with light upon it. In doing boughs in a room, as
we have had it, you escaped all that ; but, if you took
the same boughs out into sunshine, you would miss a
point here, and edge there, and have glitter and cast-
shadow to deal with ; in short, there would be more than
double trouble. This belongs rather to the subject of
colour ; but I think we had something about it before,
when I saw Susan's and your drawing of the old pond
at Hawkstone. Remember, anyhow, that introducing
sunshine into a picture alters all its conditions, and the

2l6

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

sunshine becomes the principal fact in the picture, or
nearly so. Cuyp makes it so, to his great honour —
the fuddled old Phcebus. The Professor's drawing, in
etched line, of a spray of oak as it is really seen in
light, is hereby presented to you in Fig. 23 ; and any
more puzzling thing to draw I never knew.

There is a good deal to be said about the laws of
tree-form ; but I think it must wait till we go into
the 'Fessor's canons of curvature, and composition in
general. For the present, let's have it once more : in
drawing any tree, or any thing, in a thoughtful, or in-
telligent, or truly imaginative way, you ought somehow
(often, I think, unconsciously) first to indicate some of the
ruling organic laws of what you are drawing ; secondly,
to show a sense of the individual character and liberty of
the forms of parts ; then, thirdly, you should show in-
telligence of the mysterious way in which law and liberty
are united in Nature, and ought to be indicated in draw-
ing. They are so in Turner's works : whether he is
drawing rocks, or trees, or clouds, or cities, the law is
there, and the liberty ; and he shows both, you don't
know how. The wind is blowing one way, and the
clouds are all going in that direction, each in his own
way. The granite or gneiss has burst up from beneath
by the same volcanic force, but has cooled down, every
ton of it variously. The forest all grows the same way,
by the springing fountain of sap from each root, and
every tree grows his own way, according to the ground
he stands in. The men all build their houses for shelter,
and according to the laws of gravity and mechanics ; and
every house is, or should be, different according to its
master's way. The horrid uniformity of modern streets,
which have no individuality, is what excludes them from
artistic treatment ; it indicates that appalling sameness

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

217

of outer respectability, in which all the people transact
existence.

And, whether you can reach him or not, Turner
is the best model you can follow, and try to under-
stand, in this matter. He interprets law, liberty, and
mystery in foliage and other things, in a manner un-
like any one else. There is analogy between graphic art
and life ; and nothing can be truer or more real, not more
fanciful, than this which follows from the Elements :
' There is no moral vice or virtue which has not its pre-
cise prototype in the art of painting ; so that you may
at your will illustrate the moral habit by the art, or the
art by the moral habit. Affection and discord, fretful-
ness and quietness, feebleness and firmness, pride and
modesty, and all other such habits, may be illustrated,
with mathematical exactness, by conditions of line and

colour What grace of manner and refinement of

habit are in society, grace of line and refinement of
form are in the association of visible objects. What
advantage or harm there may be in sharpness, rugged-
ness, or quaintness, in the dealings or conversations of
men, precisely that relative degree of advantage or harm
there is in them as elements of pictorial composition.
What power is in liberty or relaxation to strengthen and
relieve human souls, that power, in the same relative
degree, play and laxity of line have to strengthen or
refresh the expression of a picture. And what goodness
or greatness we can conceive to arise in companies of
men, from chastity of thought, regularity of life, sim-
plicity of custom, and balance of authority, precisely that
kind of goodness and greatness may be given to a picture
by the purity of its colour, the severity of its forms, and
the symmetry of its masses.' 1

1 1 Elements/ p. 167.

2l8

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Letter X VIII. In same envelope.
rev. r. ripon to lady lattermath.

My Dear Flora :

Charles has just turned up, in a state of
excitement, because he has got into a bit of sermon
towards the end of his letter ; and he is good enough
to say that it's my business to pull him through it, and
that I've got nothing else to do. So they all say, always.
However, as to the analogy between works of art and
the lives men live, that is one form of the question, How
far a man's work must be affected by his morals, cha-
racter, and spiritual conditions? To me, that quotation
from the 'Fessor is as true as the multiplication-table ;
but numbers of people, good ones too, and abler than
any of us in many ways, would simply skip that page in
anger, because it contains analogies which require atten-
tion, and yet are not demonstrable ; — they care for none
of such things. Literal-minded Benthamite people are
the most dogmatic tyrants on earth against anything
that isn't just in their way. Then, many people have
inactive minds ; and they find all manner of thoughts
affect them with the symptoms of an irritant poison :
so I've noticed. Many excellent Britishers look on a
man with an idea as a big caterpillar is said to con-
template the ichneumon fly who wants to lay eggs in
him, — that is to say with extreme disgust, and every
attempt at resistance of which their imperfect nature is
capable. But for this statement about good painting, —
that it conveys true, weighty, and instructive ideas about
law, liberty, and mystery, and has its morals accord-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 2ig

ingly ; — it seems to me perfectly true and sensible, as
much so as political economy. It asserts the spiritual
nature of man and his arts so strongly, that it must be
most unwelcome to materialism, and will be contradicted
accordingly, to the end of all things. ,

But if one believes in one's own spirit, as well as flesh,
one will believe that the spirit directs the eyes and
fingers, partly with conscious moral choice, partly with-
out, partly in ways altogether inscrutable. But it takes
a good deal of work to be quite certain of this in draw-
ing, &c. One must have full experience of the dif-
ferences of one's own humours and nervous conditions ;
one must compare one's work done in a happy, clear,
right-minded, and steady-handed time, with work done
thoroughly out of vein. But as to the sort of man, and
the sort of painting, everybody admits the impression of
character on work. Salvator Rosa is called Savage
Rosa in 'The Castle of Indolence.' Well, does that
mean that Thqmson thought Salvator's landscape the
work of a mild person of lymphatic habit, or that he
saw the ferocity of the man in the canvas ? Those who
look at Angelico's works, and concede the possible
existence of angels, will think he probably possessed
some of their supposed characteristics. Salvator's land-
scape is as savage as his battle-pieces. The good side
of his fierceness is his sense of the movement and
sweep of clouds and foliage ; the bad side, that he has
not patience, or good heart, or peace of mind, enough to
finish a leaf, or a wreath of mist ; and, as one sees by
his figure-subjects, he delights in the representation of
blood and murder, as much as Gustave Dore, who is his
worthy nineteenth-century successor. I don't know,
and never heard, anything against the personal cha-
racter of the last ; but I think the Salvator savageness

220

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

has come upon him, as on Salvator, because he has
given himself up to stimulating the mixed passions of
the public, and that without scruple. This involves
haste, impatience, and unscrupulous working. That is
the principle : if a man has any sense of law, order, and
the concerted action of things, he will show it ; and
Salvator shows it, in a measure, as I said. But he
shows great want of it also. Individuality, or patient
working out of character, is not his quality. If a man
has the sense of mystery, he may show it by means
of light, like Turner; or by ink, like Dore. But if
he is pandering to his own or other men's passions, con-
sciously or blindly, then his perception of law will be
warped or limited by passion, and his descriptions of
individuality will run to morbid anatomy, and his mys-
tery be sometimes rather a mystery of iniquity.

Of course, if there be no right or wrong, and nobody
is answerable for his work, no artist is ; but, if man is
to be judged according to his works, I don't see why
painters are to get off, because they work with paint.

There seem to be two sorts of men, as to their
thought and teaching. One lot is practical, and they
rejoice in what they know best, and are perfectly certain
of ; the other set is contemplative, and they are always
looking for some knowledge which they think best to
have, but cannot perfectly know. If the practical
thinker will regard nothing but logical demonstration,
he must define things, and that his own way : he will
make God in his own image ; or ride his logical faculty,
as the Mills did, right away into dogmatic atheism. If
the speculative or poetic party will do nothing but
theorize and poetize, — at all events, he can't expect the
practical man to understand him ; and he may probably
come to believe in nothing but himself. To my mind}

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

221

the Christian faith seems alike to supply the practical
man with speculative or imaginative outlooks, so that his
soul cannot cleave utterly to the dust ; and on the other
hand, it supplies the speculative with practical duties,
so that he can't go off into thin air. Painters cannot
hold it unerringly, or follow it impeccably, any more
than other men ; but in proportion as they do both, by
God's help, their painter-work will gain in purity of aim,
and power of attainment

I never perorate, and this is what I think. If you
have not done so before, you must read 'Modern
Painters,' vol. v, chapters comparing Diirer with Sal-
vator, and Angelico with Wouvermans. I can't imagine
anything better or more decisive.

Ever your affectionate

R. R.

P.S. — I'm to have a week's salmon-fishing in Craven
after Easter; will you take me in, for, say, two nights
en route either way? I meant to bring the enclosed
verses with me, but send them now. Prof. Skreemin
defied me to get any poetry out of the chase. I wonder
if you will think I've been and done it. Please explain
to non-hunting friends that Charley (not our own Caw-
thorne) means a fox in the English midlands (Charles
Fox, I suppose) ; that they always means the hounds ;
that a bullfinch is a high hedge one has to swish
through ; and that galloping fast over rig-and-furrow
fields is just like being at sea. Adieu!

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

THE GLORY OF MOTION: SOUTH OXFORDSHIRE.

Three twangs of the horn, and they're all out of cover !

Must have yon old bullfinch, that's right in the way:
A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I'm over;

They're silent and racing, and for'ard away !
Fly, Charley, my darling! Away, and we follow;

There's no earth or cover for mile upon mile;
We're winged with the flight of the stork and the swallow;

The heart of the eagle is ours for a while.

The pasture-land knows not of rough plough or harrow;

The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward;
The soul of the horses goes into our marrow:

My saddle's the kingdom, whereof I am lord;
And, rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean,

Gray waves of the high ridge-and-furrow glide on ;
And small flying fences in musical motion,

Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone.

Oh, puissant of bone and of sinew availing,

To speed through the glare of the long desert hours!
My white-breasted camel, the meek and unfailing,

That sighed not, like me, for the shades and the showers —
And, bright little Barbs, with veracious pretences

To blood of the Prophet's and Solomon's sires;
You stride not the stride, and you fly not the fences;

And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the Shires.

O gay gondolier! from thy night-flitting shallop

I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar;
But sweeter's the rhythmical rush of the gallop,

The 'fire in the saddle,' the flight of the star.
Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster

Hath ever strode under a man at his need :
Be glad in the hand and embrace of thy master,

And pant to the passionate music of speed.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

223

'T'ard Beauty — how quickly, as onward she races

And ' comes through her horses ' in spite of my hold,
I catch the expression of jolly brown faces

Of parties a-going-it over the wold.
They mostly look anxiously glad to be in it,

All hitting and holding, and bucketing past;
O pleasure of pleasures, from minute to minute,

The pace and the horses — may both of them last !

Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person

So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget,
So fully adapted to break into verse on

As this, — that the steel isn't out of him yet ?
That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather;

That one's horse can restore one the years that are gone ;
That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather,

The blood and the pace carry on, carry on?

CHAPTER XL

Letter XIX.

My dear May:

I'm so glad you are Corresponding Secretary
again— for ever so many reasons— and first and plea-
santest, because I have had a bit of success, and I know
you will be glad enough about it not to mind what has
followed. They hung my big Syrian landscape * By the
way of Edom ' right on the line at the Dudley ; and the
Duke of Holderness bought it straight off on the Visitors'
day — ^500 : of course I ought to have asked a great
deal more, but I do think it's worth that. Well, then he
called in Baker-street, he's quite young you know, and I
knew him at Ch. Ch., and he wants me to go with him
and the Duchess yachting and painting, all spring and
summer, and start directly. His vessel is at Venice — large
tonnage, and steam of course, Ai, copper fastened, and
all the rest of it, and of course carries an experienced
doctor, who won't have much to do, I hope ; but they
mean to run across to Alexandria to begin with, and
try Cairo, with a glance at the Desert — and so to Jeru-
salem ; whence, if we escape unfevered and unbroiled,
we come back to Constantinople and Athens, up the
Adriatic again, into the Styrian Alps if very hot, vintage
in the Italian lakes or thereabouts, yacht round to

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225

Genoa and home by Gib. about October. The Duchess
wants a regular change, and seems likely to have it.
Well, I have undertaken to go, for obvious reasons, and
we start almost directly ; — only settled it this morning :
I am to write to you as much as I can, for the Club, and
have instructed Ripon to do the heavy instructive work
at full length. I shall come back to you with no end
of sketches in the autumn.

Now, in the way of general advice this summer. I
think I have nearly said my say about drawing and
sketching, though in a rough way — and now as to choice
of subject, composition and colour for the sketching
season. I notice in most students' work, as the Professor
is always saying, and as I have often said to you, that
almost everybody chooses too difficult things to do — or
to attempt. We're all just like children about red, for
instance. Red sunsets, of course ; scarlet geraniums, red
cloaks, red cheeks and roses, red leaves, apples, poppies,
what not — everybody delights in the most difficult colour
they can have to deal with. For crimson or scarlet, the
purest reds in fact, are the type of pure colour. I think
you had all better read the beginning of Hesperid ^Egle
(Modern Painters, vol. v. part ix. ch. xi. p. 319),
and compare with it Hamerton's observations about
yellow sunsets being manageable by amateurs, and red
ones unmanageable. I haven't the book handy, but
he says, that amateurs, or students as I call you,
ought to be content with yellow sunsets, because the
yellow will always look distant ; and not to try red,
because that colour comes at you if it is not handled very
skilfully indeed. Which indeed is true, and in passing
I may just tell you what I think the skill consists in, and

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say practically that those who work hard at red apples,
may in time paint red sunsets, and that the red and
yellow streaks in a Blenheim Orange or a New Eng-
land pippin, are a contrast not unlike red and yellow
streaks in an evening sky — mutatis mutandis. Now the
necessary skill to treat red as well as yellow in such
a sky would be shewn— I think — (i) First, in the right
hue of your red clouds ; having the red pure enough (rose
madder and raw sienna — or scarlet madder and gam-
boge— or above all, orange vermilion.) Make a note
of that last colour ; it is almost typical of colour in its
fullest brightness, and it is midway between scarlet and
yellow, and has some of the distant quality of yellow.
I don't mean that one colour is naturally more distant-
looking than another, but that such is our imperfect
nature that we find it easier to make yellow look farther
off in a picture than red.

(2) In the right tone of your reds — none too strong or
deep. (3) On your own knowledge of the peculiar forms
of the red streaky clouds near the horizon, or the fields
of cirri aloft, or the ragged fiery edges of great storm-
clouds lower down. (4) On your experience of gradation,
so that you can keep your sky down and back, by the
shadows of your clouds on their upper sides, and the gra-
dated light from the horizon ; there's a great deal in that.
(5) On your experience of solid drawing and colour of rocks,
trees and objects in general, under sunset light, so that
there may be force of tone in your middle distance and
foreground to throw all the sky back. (6) Again, on how
much you know about solid drawing in distance and fore-
ground, so that you may have massive forms in right per-
spective to give distance to the whole picture. In other
words, if you can draw sunset clouds, and colour them, and
oppose them, you may put them in pictures, but it takes

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a painter to do it. And the younger the landscape-
student, the more he wants to do it.

This is a fair instance of premature choice of over-
difficult colour. And colours of great brightness and
purity have this special difficulty even in foreground,
that the intense hue is very flat, and destroys light and
shade. Nobody can give the light shade of scarlet
geranium ; primroses are very difficult, so is the purple
heart's-ease : if you tried to draw the delicate form of
the petal, you could not have the colour, — and here I
am happily brought to one of the first rules about choice
of subject : choose one for the sake of form, or for the
sake of colour : but unless you have time to paint a
picture on the spot, don't choose it for both — let one
of the two objects decidedly take the lead, and be pre-
ferred to the other where their interests clash.

But I began with our natural evil tendency towards
beautiful subjects which are too much for us. That is
why I have such an objection to ideas, and sentiment,
and right feeling, and moral purpose, and all that gam-
mon. You're all art-students, and not teachers of ideas,
or any of the other things, as far as I am concerned with
you. I want all your attention for technicals, and you
want me to attend to your feelings— and that amounts
to flirtation, which I don't practice. But let all observe
the Professor's rule, and 'don't draw things that you
love on account of their association ; if you do, you are
sure to be always entangled among neat brick walls, iron
railings, gravel walks, greenhouses, and quickset hedges ;
besides which you will be always trying to make your
drawing pretty or complete, which will be fatal to your
progress. All you have to do is to make it right, and
to learn as much in doing it as possible. So, then,
though you may draw anything you like in a friend's

Q 2

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room, or" your own, down to the fire-irons, or pattern on
the carpet, be sure you do it for practice and not because
it is a beloved carpet, or a friendly poker and tongs.'
Also, he says, 'never make presents of your drawings,
then you will not care too much about making them
pretty.5 Cruel, I'm afraid, but the fact is, without cruelty
one can't get much real work out of a ladies' sketching
club. Then, I say again, don't draw polished or shiny
things by choice. A strong flash of light in a picture always
asserts itself as the principal thing there, like the high light
on a jam-pot. Indeed, I can't bear anything shiny. I like
dead gold and frosted silver, and the most artistic steel
I know is in the form of linked mail, or the damasked
or the black Khorasanee sword blades. We have had
a good deal before about sunshine versus colour ; and
how brilliant light destroys hue or is unfavourable to it.
As a corollary to this, never draw new things. All fresh
things if you like, from buds up to babies ; what I mean
is, new made things of man's making. ' You cannot have
a more difficult or profitless study than a new eight-oar,
or a better study than an old coal barge lying ashore at
low tide. In general, everything that you think very
ugly will be good for you to draw.' Of course, he excepts
ladies, at least I always do : — it wouldn't be exactly
nice for any member of the club to take to making
studies of the plainer portion of her acquaintance
as such.

Further : don't draw things through one another ; try
and not have trees in foreground so as to draw distance
through their branches ; avoid confusion, generally
speaking : you lose time for open-air sketching in the
great difficulty of these matters. Again, which is a hard
saying in a cultivated country, avoid all enclosures : they
dwarf the whole country, and make it angular and

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229

unmanageable. In the West Country the fences seem to
swallow half the land up ; they are beautiful in them-
selves, but it is demoralizing to contemplate such infernal
farming; and, after all, you only get the idea of a for-
malized wilderness. You can make capital studies of
honeysuckles and blackberries in a hedgy country ; and
it is perhaps the best work you can do there : I had
rather do that than try extended views of enclosures.

And, per contra, as to where you are to look for sub-
jects. What to look for, I can't tell you ; for beauty is
in the eye of the gazer ; but you will know when it is
found. Try all banks and slopes for her, — anywhere
where water runs one way, and leaves decided marks;
and where stones are left bare, or natural rock, and where
grass and trees grow on a slope, and mark the anatomy
of ground, as in Fig. 19. There is always something by
a river, — either broken banks, or old steps, or lock-gates,
or bucks and eel-pots, or mossy stones and trickling
water, or sword-flags and reeds and water-lilies. You
most of you dwell in the Midlands ; and therefore your
best home-subjects will generally be trees and cottages,
unless you take to architecture, which I do not want you
to do, except for practice in line and perspective. But
draw all such things faithfully ; for in proportion to
your power over them will be the springs you will find
let loose in you when you get the chance of contending
with mountains and torrents. But those are happiest
who are best contented with home-subjects. No art-
critic is any good who doesn't 'contradict himself
periodically; and, having told you in the last page not to
draw things because you love them, I now say, don't
draw them unless you love them.

You all go to the seaside somewhere, I suppose, or can
reach the Downs somewhere. What I have to say on them

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is, that you will do better, when there, to look for broken
banks, and overhanging places of moderate height, than
to go in for high chalk-cliffs, unless you get them as
masses, under special circumstances, or make the most
careful and literal studies of their structure. I remem-
ber once at Brighton, seeing a great cumulus of April
hail-cloud with the black part of it bearing out a high
white coast-cliff, which had the sun on it in front, and
yellow sands in wreaths and heaps before it. The sea
was passing from emerald to indigo and purple, and
breaking against it, — there were white sails, and birds, &c.
That made a capital study of masses in blue, white, gray,
and yellow ; and you can look for some such effect in
a chalk country near the sea ; but generally it is better
to draw banks in a state of transition from cliff to slope.
And, for tree-studies, two or three trunks, with flowery
ground below, and ivy on them, if you can find it, are
the most rewarding things you can take up.

Wherever you live, there's always the sky ; and the sun
sets and rises, and clouds fly and change, over all things,
great and mean, or good and evil. Then, wherever you
can find a brook, or any water that flows between
natural banks in its own way and at its own pace, why,
there you are. Draw it, water and banks, till you get
the lines of flow quite right, and till the water runs in
your line-etching : do that, and you can do anything.

I write a good deal of this, because some of you write
rather pathetic complaints about not getting good sub-
jects, never having seen Switzerland and Italy, and so
on. Well, it does seem hard ; and no doubt a summer
in Switzerland would give any student an impulse ; and
it is a great fact in one's mental history when one first
sees high mountains. I'm sure it was in mine. And
I do so like nice young ladies having nice things ! But

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really there are not many in the club who are equal to
the study of Alpine scenery — in a workmanlike or
artistic sense. Technically speaking, you will most of
you be better painters by working at home, at whatever
you can find, and making yourselves strong enough
before the great opportunity comes round. I find spring
in England, when there is any, one of the most inspiring
things I know, — and that after having seen and drawn
things from Hammerfest to Mount Sinai. And that
reminds me : — everybody in the club must do a primrose,
a snowdrop, a larch-bud (you know the crimson and
green things, how pretty they are), and a horse-chestnut-
bud just open, before the ' perfect fan,' next spring ; it's
too late now. Meanwhile, let all who can't find anything
beautiful make me a study, this autumn, of a large grow-
ing root of globe-orange mangel wurzel. I'm going to do
one myself; for it is just about the most beautiful study
of deep and strong contrasted colour in the world, — the
deepest and brightest purple and green, and the richest
and purest orange and red. And let's all try and see
the great beauty of little things. An old town or village
in middle distance is a delightful subject, if only you
will draw it with its ins and outs, and tile-roofs, and red
brick against green, and ricks and palings, and tufted
gardens and old trees, and cows and et ceteras. French-
country life is more picturesque than English ; low-
country life, I mean. The avenues of trees and sweeping
unenclosed country are so charming, and the tree-forms
in general are more graceful ; and our ruins are always
in such good repair, and our wildernesses so very artifi-
cial, that there certainly are a good many snares in the
sketcher's path. So never trouble yourself with any
thing but genuine subjects ; and as the Professor says,
says he, which his words are very true indeed, 'When

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you get into a mountain country, the first thing you feel
is, that you are overpowered with too much subject ; and
the first thing you have to do is to set to work at one
corner of rounded rock, with lichens over it in one place,
and its structure well marked in another, and get that
rounded and lichened in your drawing in correct form and
local colour. Do that right first, and then you may try
to draw the morning spread upon the mountains, if you
can. But, when you are strong enough to choose grand
subjects for yourselves, you are beyond my range of
teaching.'

And the fact is, that I must now talk to you in another
way ; that is to say, to the most advanced of you, Nos.
&c, &c, and to all the others in order, as they reach a
certain standard of precision and certainty in execution.
That is all I have tried to lead to, so far, — truth of work one
may call it, I suppose. But now we are going on about
composition and colour ; and idiosyncrasy, or natural
gift, must come in : so that henceforth I must have
regard to your ideas and feelings, and all that ; and so,
instead of objecting to ideas in general, I shall hence-
forth only blow up about irrelevant ones.

As you know, one can't help nibbling at the subject of
composition all along, because composition begins when-
ever you compose, or put any two objects together in a
drawing. Well, people ask what are the principles of
composition ; and the best answer is, that they are not
completely ascertained, and never can be, till art is ex-
hausted, till every possible idea is expressed, and till very
possible permutation and combination of artistic ideas
have been made. What do you want to do, or compose ?
What sort of picture do you want to make ? what sort of
idea will you convey ? If your idea is fresh, your com-
position will be a new experiment on new principles.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

And you will find, doubtless, when your work turns
out well, that certain general rules have been obeyed in
it. If you first made out what you really wanted to do,
and then took the best means to do it, you obeyed the
first rule of composition, in its proper order ; that is to
say, you secured some degree of unity and consistency.
I've said it too often, I know ; but it comes round in
such an endless number of ways, — the leading idea or
characteristic, and truth to it. Ladies hardly ever want
ideas, I think, or fragments of them ; but they frequently
get them from men, and they often seem to have dif-
ficulty in choosing the biggest. And whoever it may be,
man or woman, the more imagination and feeling one
has, the more decided duty it is to be accurate with one's
self about what one really has imagined or felt, and
whether it is one's own egg, or somebody else's egg, —
which last case, I'm sorry to say, is the general rule.
I know that it is in a real sense a new fact that A or B
has got an idea, new to him, though it may be as old
as the hills to any one else ; but, when A comes to ex-
press it, he must consider how many people know it
already, under all forms of expression. And for feeling,
you know appreciation is not genius, and mistakes are
made between the two. Pure appreciation or admira-
tion, of a great work, cannot go wrong ; but when it
begins to be emulous, it is less safe. You may think it
is in you to do as good a novel or picture as the admired
example, and wish intensely to do it ; but you can't do
that model over again, or take another's ideas from him,
and make them your own, as if they occurred to you
first. You may do as good ; but it must be different, —
yours, and not his ; and imitation often becomes gross
plagiarism. Look how Tennyson's poems, or Kingsley's
novels, used to be illustrated at the R. A. It may be

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meritorious to work out a picture of the Gardener's
Daughter, gowned in pure white, &c., as in the book ;
but the picture cannot be original work in the same
sense as the poem is an original poem. No doubt it
depends on subject, and on the mental vigour of the
painter; as some of Tingrind's or De Vair's illustrations
show great original power, though of familiar subjects,
such as the Sleeping Princess, or Arthur. But on these
great subjects for all comers, the poet and painter are
much in the same position. It is well to try what you
can do after so many others. Horace tells young poets
to try the common or public subjects [dicere communid),
because they are difficult, and they have been often done
before ; so that the student may compare his work upon
them with other people's. Sad old dog, but knew a deal
about composition.

Now, then, your painting, for the future, will be in two
lines, — either you will employ yourself in making studies
or memoranda, in order that you may know hereafter
how to do compositions which you look forward to in
your mind ; or you will mentally arrange materials thus
gathered, thinking things over and over, till you know
which to take, and how to take them, and in what
order. You never will do this well by any rule or set of
rules. It is a gift, people all say ; and to me it seems
undoubtedly a divine gift, if any of our faculties or
powers are divinely given. But to the landscape-
painter, at all events, motives of composition come, or
ought to come, quite easily and sufficiently, in the form
of what we call impressions from Nature. Some of you
will now be right in beginning to try to ' paint your im-
pressions,' as Turner said. How he came to say it, was
this : some good landscapist, it may have been Stanfield,
told him that he had been much struck with a view

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somewhere on the Simplon, and, being then unable to
stop, had gone back to the place next year, and found
himself indifferent to it, and, on the whole, unable to
make anything of it. ' Don't you know you ought to
paint your impressions?' said Turner. By impression
he meant that instantaneous prescience and forecast of
the picture which he would make, imprinted once —
perhaps not oftener — by the place which charmed him.
His great sensibility and intense vision impressed him
with such pleasure as such men feel at their best ; and
his great science in ways and means of representation
enabled him then and there to see his way to embody-
ing that delight, and making it permanent. He got
a vision of that view, under that light and so on, as it
would look on his canvas or paper ; he saw its compo-
sition 'within his head'; and, more than that, his know-
ledge of materials and operations seems generally to
have given him an instantaneous forecast of the colours
and processes he would use. One cannot help seeing in
his unfinished works that he is working up to an impres-
sion ; to one consistent notion of the whole; and also that
he is working with precision and certainty, and has a pre-
science of his work in its intermediate state. Well, that,
of course, is genius in the highest degree, developed in
a very strong character by the severest technical training;
and you can't do like Turner, or Stanfield either. But
you can do like May Langdale at her best ; and that is
worth doing, I can tell you. So do not lose an impres-
sion. I am thinking of scenes or ' effects ' now, not simple
studies. You see some place you fancy for a picture.
Why do you fancy it ? Because of its actual beauty in
form or colour, all day long and every day ? or because
you see it under storm, or sunset, or sunrise ? or from
thoughtful or sentimental association ? Any of these, to

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an advanced student, is a good motive or reason for
painting a picture, if it is strong enough to carry you
through the picture ; but of course, if you only do the
place on account of an effect of light or so, it is the effect
which must be your real subject, and not the permanent
features of the place. As to subjects whose motive is
sentiment, all I have to say is, the stronger your feelings
are about a place, the more mathematically accurate
your description of it in water-colour ought to be. Non-
sense-description of feelings, and tearing passion to
tatters, are common enough things in print ; but tearing
a beloved landscape to tatters for want of patience or
attention shows that love or sentiment about it has
waxed cold ; and is intolerable.

Well, bearing in mind that we are studying colour
now, and therefore that, in all we do now, colour is to
take the lead throughout, and to be perferred to form, if
necessary, let's set a palette : I mean let us see your
colour-box, or write one out for you. I would use cake-
colours at home, at least, in England ; but the moist
ones are best for out-door and general purposes. Take
time in beginning ; and always have clean saucers and
two water-bottles at hand ; and do, please, be cleaner
and tidier with both than I ever was, or shall be. Have
clean Chinese-white near you always, and keep it moist
by using it with all your distance-colours, and indeed
with almost all your hues, unless for deep transparent
darks. For in water-colour, as well as oils, the principle
is the same ; opaque or solid lights and shadows you
can see into. By using a little white habitually, you will
quietly pick up the practice of body-colour as you go on,
and glide from that into oils quite easily ; for body-
colour practice is precisely the same as that of oil, guided
by the principle above mentioned. I think I must finish

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237

up these letters by an introduction to oil-colour, through
practice in copying Turner's gray paper body-colours,
— for example, some of the drawings for the Rivers of
France, which are now at Oxford and Cambridge.
A great thing about body-colour is, that it delivers you
altogether from shininess, and all temptation in that
direction. In oil, one has always too much glitter : and
the horrid yellow varnishes which prevailed after the
Dutch school are utter ruin to anything like colour ; so in
water-colour I would avoid polish altogether. Never gum
anything whatever. Do no more than use gamboge with
your violet-carmine and indigo, or brown madder and
indigo in the deep shades. Flashes and gleams on water,
and so on, are about the only shiny things in landscape1.
I think it's a sign of advancing good taste, that French
polish is going out so much in furniture. Oak and walnut,
and all other woods, I think, look much better for hand-
rubbing.

Accordingly, for water-colour drawing, we will have
white paper, rather smooth, but not greasy, and trans-
parent or semi-transparent colour. One thing more
before our list of paints ; and that is, on washing over.
First of all, don't do it ; or, if at all, only by way of lay-
ing ground colours. If you know what you are going
to draw, you may prepare a ground for it by laying in
the masses of your picture in gray and yellow, flat and
smooth ; and I give you leave to let them dry, and go
over them with a soft brush and clean water, to get at
something of Lionardo's sfumose, or cloudy shadow.
But when you begin with accurate form and real colour,
then resign your washes, and emphatically, ' throw up

1 All atmospheric lights are best in opaque colour, without excep-
tion. Gamboge is a gum, and will give quite enough transparency to
your shade.

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the sponge.' Never have anything to say to rough
paper in any moderate-sized work ; and with cartoon-
size here we've nothing to do. Of hard chalk portrait-
heads on rough paper we may speak some time, but not
now. I know that some of you are given over to spong-
ing and washing ; but really it is hardly ever of any real
use ; it is positively bad whenever you do it without
definite reason, and worse and worse as you do it later
on in your picture.

Here is your full list of colours. If you get them all
in half-cakes, dry or moist, they will not take up much
room in a tin box. Arrange thus, I think. Did I give
you a list before ? if so, this is a complete one of all you
can want. Arrange thus, across the usual tin box, —

Cobalt. Smalt. Antwerp-Blue. Indigo.

Yellow-Madder. Gamboge. Emerald-Green. Raw-Sienna.

Lemon-Yellow. Cadmium. Yellow-Ochre. Chrome-Yellow, I.

Rose-Madder. Burnt-Sienna. Ligbt-Red. Indian-Red.

Orange-Vermilion. Extract of Vermilion. Carmine. Violet-Carmine.

Brown-Madder. Burnt-Umber. Vandyke-Brown. Sepia.

Violet-carmine and Indian-red make a capital purple
for drawing forms or lines, when you mean to colour over
them.

Always float colour on as wet as you can at first, in all
the light tints ; and use it rather thick, so as to crumble
on the paper, in the darks ; then fill the interstices up
with another deep hue somewhat opposed, — lay green
into blue shadow, or into purple, or into black ; or purple
into red ; or red into yellow ; or try and make purple in
your work by patching or stippling pink into blue ; or
orange, by using pure red and yellow in a crumbling
way together. It is difficult, but very interesting ; and
that's the way to get good colour. I have mentioned
two or three triple mixtures, as, raw-sienna, indigo, and

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239

brown-madder for background to a study, or foregrounp
shades ; and you may put some gamboge with your
violet-carmine, and red if you want transparency. But,
as a rule, never mix more than two paints at a time.
Better put the third over the first two when they are dry.

It will do you all good to get a large sheet of paste-
board in squares or strips, and to try mixed tints on it —
warm and cold colours together. Once for all, life is too
short for the use of colours as they ought to be used :
and everybody must pick up knowledge for himself about
them ; but you will get most in this experimental way.

Then the suggestive Susan asks a very sensible
question, — if there is any dodge, or help, as to matching
natural open-air colours. She says they are all so odd,
and none to be found in the box. Well, one thing to do
is to practice mixed tints on pasteboard, and try them
against natural tints. One comes on good grays or
purples that way. But the best way is that in the
Elements ; i.e. to cut a hole the size of a pea in a white
card, hold it in the light, but not in sunshine, and so look
through it at different hues, — grass, trees, rocks, &c. ;
then match those hues on the cardboard. And if you
do this pretty rightly, and paint a landscape in those
colours, you will find yourself using Turner's colours ;
and your work will be, in an important sense, like his1.

1 Elements, Letter iii. p. 212: 1 In your early experiments, you
will be much struck by two things, — first, by the inimitable brilliancy
of light in sky and in sun-lighted things ; and then, that, among the
tints you can imitate, those which you thought the darkest will con-
tinually turn out to be in reality the lightest. Darkness of objects
is estimated by us, under ordinary circumstances, much more by
knowledge than by sight ; thus a cedar or Scotch fir at two hundred
yards off will be thought of darker green than an elm or oak near
us, because we know by experience that the peculiar colour they
exhibit at that distance is the sign of darkness of foliage. But, when

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It is rather a good thing for modern art that the man
who can write best about colour for professed painters
and students has written most about it. I have nothing
to add, I'm sure. But you cannot understand about
colour, unless you are always looking at it ; or about
matching landscape-colours, unless you are always trying
mixed tints. And, as said above, never mix too many ;
remember you can put another glaze over when dry, and
warm up or change hues, or chill and throw them back, if
you like. Still you should keep up the practice of trying
pure colours laid into each other's interstices to produce
the effect of a mixture. For example, blue drapery is
often greenish in the lights, and purplish or blackish in
the shades. There are numbers of blues, and a larger
number of bad blues than of other bad colours. But if
you look at one of the Veroneses in the National Gallery,
or can get at some of De Vair's work, you will see all
that can be done in that colour. The French blue-
purples, which they generally oppose to drab or deep yel-
low, are very instructive. At all events, in doing these
variations, paint the half-shades in first, as near as you can
match them, with a not very full brush, leaving crumbly
edges, and fill those in with the next tint pure without
any mixing. A little of this practice with drapery will
teach you a great deal of colour, besides bringing you
on in boldness and accuracy of form both together. Do
this, and paint single wild flowers and leaves right up to
their hues, if you can, in oil, body-colour, or transparent
water-colour, especially the last. The more you do this,
the better you will understand all that is written con-

we try them through the cardboard, the near oak will be found
rather dark green, and the distant cedar perhaps pale gray-purple.
The quantity of purple and gray in Nature is, by the way, another
somewhat surprising object of discovery.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

241

cerning these things, and the less time (happily) you will
have to read it ; for colour is colour, and it can't be talked
or written in black and white.

As I've been saying, one reason you can't talk about
colour is, that you are sure to contradict yourself. No-
body knows what blue is, or what green is, or purple ;
and the 'Fessor says there is no such thing as brown.
I used to describe things on the positivist principle, and
always say sky-colour, or gentian colour, or turquoise ;
or, in greens, emerald or leaf-green, and so on. But
now, by way of a good self-stultification, you must do
all you can to lay your colours in exact patches, edge
to edge ; and you must also practise laying them into
each other. Patchwork, of course, is the principle ; and
in theory everything ought to be painted touch for touch
— like mosaic, my friend Legros says ; but it can't
always be done, and there is a peculiar melting quality
about hues which have blended naturally while wet :
we must all try to run colours into each other as
like Nature as we can. The example in the Ele-
ments, p. 213, is a birch-trunk. Take one from Nature
— a young one in the woods, where the brown bark
joins the white — and paint it as well as you can,
fitting the edge of one tint to the edge of another, ac-
cording to form. ' The high lights will probably be
white ; then there will be pale rosy gray round them
on the light side ; then a deeper gray on the dark side,
probably greenish, perhaps varied by reflected colours.
Over all there will be rich black strips of bark, and
brown spots of moss. Lay first the rosy gray on the
light side, leaving white for the high lights, spots of
moss, and dark side ; then lay the gray for the dark
side, leaving the black and brown moss still white, but
fitting this gray shade colour to the rosy gray ; then take

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the moss colours, brown and green, matching every spot,
and lay them in the white patches left for them ; then
the blacks and browns on the dark side, all to form ; then
your background; fitted to the edge of the tree-trunk.'

It sounds hard and irksome ; but there are few students
of landscape, indeed, who would not be much the better
for sitting down and trying it. Or take a big stone, a
mossy one by a brook-side, in the same way. Sunny
side, pale green-gray, black, cobalt, light red, and touch
of yellow-ochre ; leave forms of mossy spots correctly ;
dark side same, gray darker ; leave mossy forms ; then
emerald and gamboge on the moss, all over ; then model
the gray stone, and get all the forms you can in the
gray ; then ditto moss in green ; then background, raw-
sienna, cobalt, and yellow-ochre, say ; then strong umber
shadows ; same on the deepest part of the moss, or under
it ; finally, a touch of chrome on the brightest green.
These are all separate touches. The result ought to
look quite like Nature ; but every brush-mark should
be visible through a glass.

Do one or other of these subjects. And then, for
blending colours. Look at a wave, or better, perhaps,
a sheet of calm clear water, playing under reflections.
Draw, or put down something in hard pencil to repre-
sent, its undulation, so that you may be able to be quick
and decided with your forms in brushwork ; then strike
on the light sides of all the waves not very wetly, but
very pale, with emerald-green and a little yellow-ochre,
leaving the darkest parts of their furrows. Before it
dries, add cobalt to the yellow-green, and cover the
paper almost entirely, leaving nice edges here and there ;
then, while still wet, put in Antwerp-blue and lake with
your cobalt, to get two well-opposed purple shades.
Touch them in firmly while rather wet, using two brushes.

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243

The result may come to grief once or twice ; but if you
are sure of your forms, and put your touches in quick
and firm, without puddling the colour, it will have real
beauty of hue, I trust. The right point of wetness is
the difficulty. Then paint blue into gray, and purple
into crimson, in sunset clouds and sky : they will require
careful drawing in the first instance, but will give you
an idea of the superior quality of quickly-laid colour.

You know, I don't want you all to do all these things
seriatim. But I think any of you, even the very best,
will get something by any of these practices which you
have not tried before. Many of you may have made use
of them already ; but I wish you would try all that look
new to you ; particularly the last, with wet pure colour ;
for beware of mixing mixtures. For richness of colour,
texture of near work, lusciousness of effect, and all that,
William Hunt is your model ; and your best exercise
will be painting single petals of bright garden flowers,
geraniums, I think in particular, or single roseleaves of
various hues. Calceolarias and foxgloves are very in-
teresting, and difficult as to their spots. Of course, if
you go to Switzerland, and get a chance of studying
gentian or Alpine rose, why, do it, I entreat you : and
don't give up all to sensations of glacier and precipice.
But studying rich flower-colours will show you, beyond
all else, how true splendour of hue lies in gradation and
change, not in quantity or extent of bright colour. The
Professor says, Nature is quite stingy about her ultra-
marine in a bell-gentian, economising it down to the
bottom of the cup. Perugino was very particular about
his, too, I remember ; or was it his employers who made
it, and were so stingy with him P1 In any case, if a very

1 Vasari's Life.
R 2

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

small space of pure colour is not brilliant enough, you
will seldom paint it brighter by adding to its extent, or
trying to make it brighter. Gradate it and vary it ;
oppose it properly, and see that you have nothing else
to put it out. And, to learn clear force of colour, you
may paint your geranium petals till you can pick them
up. In anything which has much bloom on it, as grapes,
&c, it is a good plan to lay a thick body-colour ground
of the bloom-tint, and paint all the variations into that
with transparent colours.

This is a heavy letter, dear May and here

Charley took a long browse at the feather of his pen.
His disquisition on colour was easier to write, after all,
than his four months' valediction to May. What would
t'owd missis say ? (Lady Susan Cawthorne always went
by that name in the mouths of her irreverent offspring.)
He knew that May had been asked to Red Scaurs for
the whole summer, with a decided eye to business on
his mother's part. How t'missis did adore May, to be
sure ! And really, you know, four months' knocking
about without seeing her would be a bore ; and mere de-
scriptive letters would hardly be enough between them.
And he fancied that May had left off telling him about
herself and her thoughts of late : she was as frank as
ever, but not so confidential, and their cousinly epistles
had been fewer than usual. Charley put down his pen,
and ordered Warhawk round. It was cold and wet : so
he indulged in something far beyond regulation pace
in Rotten Row, which was almost deserted. Warhawk
strode along easily at three-quarter speed ; and the
delightful rhythmical motion and feeling cheered his
master's spirits not a little. Still he thought of Port
Meadow and Knavesmire, and of the figure of all figures
which had so often fled on fast by his side ; how she

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245

used to bend her long neck to him, and glance with
wide dark eyes, and tell him some odd fancy ; or sing
a little of some galloping ditty ever so low to herself
and the hoofs ! * Come,' quoth Charley to himself, ' if
I'm not quite in love yet, I can't think of anybody else
like this. Shall I give up Holderness ? he'll understand,
or, at all events, the Duchess will.' No, it was all set-
tled, and it would hardly be right to break ofT ; he was
really wanted as friend and companion more than as
a drawing master after all.

He must go and see May. Come, he could take her
something : she always kissed him, and was so pleased
with anything he gave her. He bethought him of a
favourite study of Susan Milton's golden head with a
dark green ribbon in it, relieved against the brown neck
and black mane of old Catapult, represented as eating
carrots from her hand. Catapult's brown and black
stood out against a mossy olive-green Yorkshire stone
wall — and all was highly finished. May had not seen
it. It was prettily framed ; and he had it packed at
once. Then, only stopping in Baker Street to give the
needful orders, he went to Mr. Ruby's, who had charge
of certain pretty things left him by an extinct aunt or
somebody, and bore away an emerald and diamond ring
of price. He dared not order an 'engaged' one; but
the alternate repetition of the first and last letter of the
word was something. Besides, the arrangement of colour
was bad in the regular anagrammatic circlet ; and coarse
stones, like garnets and amethysts, were her aversion.
Then he remembered she would be at RotherclifTe, and
full of her infirmary. So he lighted down at Fortnum
and Mason's, and bought some tins of turtle-soup, and
two dozen of champagne for the patients. May would
like that. He looked in at Peat's, where a new travelling-

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saddle, with holsters, bags, and valise, a remounted Per-
sian snaffle, and the package of his gun and et ceteras,
along with the saddlery, highly interested him ; and so
he thought again of the long hours of horseback, and
wandering fields of barren foam, and that four or five
months.

Thinking what will please a young lady is a mental
occupation more easily taken up than laid down again.
And now came two questions to exercise Charles for the
rest of the day, — ' First, what does she like most ? second,
supposing that to be, on the whole, me, hadn't I better
square the whole concern before I start ? It is awkward
running away from her now ; and they won't find it easy
to put her visit off till I come home : it would be too
obvious for her. I'm afraid she must be angry ; and her
anger always takes the form of harder work, and less
pleasure. She wouldn't go and marry an ascetic divine,
now.' — A thrill of terror went through him ; but he
thought of Ripon and his influence, and felt easier. But
he went off with his presents by the night train for all
that, and drove to the sister's house at Rothercliffe,
straight from the station.

He asked for the Lady- Superior, and was admitted
with some circumspection, as the visits of young gen-
tlemen with the appearance of superior plungers are
somewhat unfrequent at the doors of religious ladies.
It would be difficult to say which of the two was more
agreeably surprised with the other. Sister Catherine
had entertained an idea that young painters were an ex-
ceedingly rough lot, or, as she would herself have put
it, a painful description of young persons ; and Charley
lived in some awe, and perhaps suspicion, of ladies-
superior as a variety. So that, when he found he had only
to talk to a well-bred woman in a black gown, and white

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247

hood and collar, who understood not only him, but May
and him, in five minutes, and seemed to think the whole
thing perfectly natural, he was not only very much
pleased, but showed it in a manner gratifying to his
interlocutor. May was with her patients. He said
something of having brought a present for the hospital ;
and the sister clapped her hands on hearing of the cham-
pagne. It was the very thing the convalescents wanted ;
and it would be a blessing to all the sisterhood to have
it to give them. ' But you won't carry May away from
us altogether, Mr. Cawthorne? She is so very useful,
and does so much with so little trouble or bustle ! Don't
be surprised ; she is not Sister anything, you know :
nobody can call her any name but May ; and we all go
by our own Christian names here. How long do you
want her ? '

' I want to take her home, and bring her back on
Saturday, on my way to town. We start early on
Monday morning.'

' This is Thursday — dear me ! Well, after the turtle-
soup, you may claim anything, But we shall miss her ;
and, what is worse, a good many sick people will ; and I
shall have to send her away in a fortnight, as I never let
her stay for more than six weeks at a time. You musn't
think I think her vocation is really with us. She does
us most good by coming and going. Won't you drive
on a hundred yards to the wards with the nice things ?
Ask for the matron, and tell her you come from me ; or,
stay, here's a line for her.'

He passed through the usual ominously clean hospital
hall and staircase, which seems as if the echoes of the
whole building were forcibly suppressed in it, like the
winds in Ulysses' keeping, all eager to break forth. It
always makes one listen for screams in far apartments.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

He caught a soupqon of the conventional smell of saw-
dust, soap, and dry stores, fresh meat and baking ; and
turned into the accustomed clammy waiting-room, with
horsehair chairs prematurely worn by anxious people
fidgeting in them. He had time to be sorry for others,
and thankful for his own twelve-stone of hard health ;
noticed the lift and chair outside for shattered casualties,
and the terrible low oak-jointed table in the corner ; and
forgot all in a moment as May shot into the room quite
radiant. She had just had time to read his letter : and,
whatever she thought of it, to complain was altogether
foreign to her nature and ways.

' Well, here you are : I'm so glad to see you before
you go ! ' and she gave him both hands, and just let his
lips touch her cheek. ' Have you time to tell me about
it?'

Charley had been nervous before; but this greeting
affected him as if she had thrown a bucket of cold water
in his eyes, and followed it up by another of scaldings.
He hemmed and hawed, and held on to both her hands,
till she assured him that ' she did not mean to scratch,'
not knowing what to say either. She was vexed ; but
even then ' his twa een told her a sweet story.'

1 My dear May, I wont't go if you really forbid it ; but
it is a great chance. You see I'm no better than my
fathers, and here is just what I want most — a strong
patron to bring forward all I've been working at for ten
years. He could get one a hearing.'

1 You creature, do go wherever you like ! but settle it
all well at Red Scaurs. Your father and Lady Susan are
getting on, you know, and are not strong. Goodness !
What's in all these boxes ? You really do not lodge here,
Charles ? and well for you too.'

' Sister Catherine told me to bring it here ; it's some

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249

tins of turtle soup and a little champagne for the un-
fortunates in general.'

* That's a dear good boy ! how it will bring them all
up ! Champagne is such a tonic, you know ; and I be-
lieve it does people twice as much good, because it is so
nice. I'm quite against nasty things.'

' Could one get the sisters to take any ? '

'Perhaps, if Lady Susan would send them a dozen,
they would have it on feast-days.'

'Well, now, come with me now to Red Scaurs, till
Saturday, and coax t'missis about that and other things.
I have got leave from Sister Catherine.'

May started, and declined rather confusedly. There
would be so much to do and settle with his ' parients,'
and she should feel in the way ; and they really wanted
her here very much till Sister Anne came back, and
so on. Charles begged hard, and carried his point ; but
he felt that no more could be said to his dark lady now.
He was lover enough to feel that a rebuff would be very
bad to bear, and had tact to see that May was more
vexed than she showed, or indeed knew. The brave do
not feel fresh wounds ; but they bleed from the old
ones ; and it seemed, for the time, as if all their years
of friendship had only established their power of giving
each other pain. Both were beginning to know that
vague sense of dependence, and loss of inner liberty,
which we are sorry to say does come on people, when
they first know that they care for somebody else as
much as they do for themselves. It is startling, and not
always pleasant, particularly to self-centred and high-
minded young ladies. They feel wronged : they have
not flirted, or called on love, or noticed the tiresome
urchin ; but his hand is at their heart-strings for all that,
and he is lord of pain as well as pleasure.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

And Charles was in the wrong. JHe ought not to
have put her off as a bit of summer occupation to be
settled with before grouse time ; and now she suspected
he meant to say something at once, and try to carry
her by coup de main before he went, without really un-
derstanding or explaining, or telling his heart to her at
all. Though she would not have owned it in words,
the being made love to properly would have been very
sweet to May Langdale, who could dispense with nearly
all pleasures, but was far too young not to enjoy them
all. And having, perhaps, indulged in certain visions
of a summer of sweet words and sighs, she felt a real
distress at losing them all ; in short, her soul was bitter
within her ; and she dreaded further trial, and would
not let Charles be grave about her, or himself, or his
parents, or his journey. They had a hasty luncheon
with the Superior, who talked well and rapidly all the
time ; then she made him look after her luggage, modest
as it was ; then they couldn't hear themselves speak
in the train. A waggonnette is not a good place for
mutual confidences ; and for that evening and all the
next day Charles was occupied with his father, who had
distinguished himself of old as a traveller in the Isles
of Greece, and produced an infinity of journals, plans,
and sketches. Lady Susan clung to May as soon as
they were alone together, and said she was her great
hope, and her daughter — already ; so like her whom
she and Ripon never forgot or named. They sat close
together like little girls : the elder lady was full of love
for the younger, and a little afraid of her, and knew not
what to say on their main point. But her tenderness
was balm to the other ; and anger and sorrow all went
out of May's great wholesome spirit straightway.

' You'll come to us in the summer all the same, dear?'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

said the old lady. 'We are getting past everything
now. Tom won't get away from the House till August ;
and then you are not only my darling, but you would do
everything for us so well ! I want as much help some-
times as one of the RotherclifTe old ladies ; and I value
yours so much more! And you never manage anybody.'

' Oh gracious, Lady Susan ! I hope not : I've no
turn for command, I know.'

' No ; but people in general have a surprising turn for
doing what you tell them : that is better. I declare, that
stupid boy's only chance was never to go out of your
sight ; and I suppose you are out of all patience with
him.'

' No ' (here followed kisses), ' you've made me so much
better! I think we have both taken each other too
coolly ; but, indeed, I think I must be very fond of him.
He's the very contrary of stupid, I'm sure. Tell me,'
said May, in her soft shrewd voice, — 'you have always
seen so much of the world, — isn't it true that young
ladies are almost expected to propose to gentlemen in
society ?'

' Well,' said the old lady, relieved and amused, ' they
seem to do quite their share of the courtships ; but I
never expected a son of mine to be a backward lover.'

' I'm sure he has great hopes from his painting. All
his things are so full of passion and hard work, as if he
threw his soul into his fingers ; and he seems to have no
passion to spare. Perhaps he is a great man after all,
you know ; and his ways are not our ways.'

' I've no notion of a great man's caring so little for his
old mother's little games, and going off to Jericho just
when she has asked the beauty of all England to come
and stay in a country-house with him. But, my dear,
what am I to say to him?'

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

'Nothing. I'm not a modern, but quite an old
woman, and can't let him off speaking first. Lady
Susan,, do you in your heart think he really cares
enough about it?'

' I do, in my heart, think that he is just like the rest
of them, and would go mad if he thought he should lose
you ; and I think he is learning to know that too. And
really he may learn it best of all at his Jerichoes.'

' Then ' (more kisses) ' only let him find that out, if he
can ; and don't let him say anything now, and I'm sure
I shall be glad to be here this summer. "And let all
this be as it was before,'" said May, unconsciously
quoting Dora, and illustrating it as well.

CHAPTER XII.

ELL, good-bye, my dear Charley,' said his

V V mother at parting, and after all embraces.
' You were quite right to say no more to May now :
just leave her to us, and write to her. It's no use talk-
ing, Dieu dispose. But, till I see you together, I shall
live in fear; and, if I leave you with her, I shall die
happy, and so will your father.'

Dick Ripon sat in his Oxford study on a summer
morning, running over Charles's club letters, a few of
which had been left unanswered : he was further in-
trusted with the duty of elaborating some additional
remarks on colour, from that hero's notes. He was ill
at ease, and anxious about May, but had had the
comfort of seeing that the painter was much worse
than he was. After all, they were young ; and three
or four months would not be much, if all were well.
The Vicar had had his 7 a.m. service, his gallop
before breakfast, and then that meal itself; had seen
sick people and others ; and had finally done what he
could to shut himself up for a little writing : but, as
being interrupted was the law of his existence, his ob-
servations were apt to be more pithy than connected.
They were addressed to Flora for the present, as he
was to see May at RotherclifTe in a few days, and had
already written to her on her own affairs. He sat at
his study-table, doubled up in a Glastonbury chair, in a

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

corner of the room, like a pacha in a divan, and seeming
to fill it up with his deep broad torso, and powerful
thighs, and bow legs, as a badger fills his lair. He had
learned an Eastern habit of never letting himself be
accessible from behind ; no bad rule for those who ad-
mit all comers. For the rest, 1 his swarthy visage spake '
distraction, if not distress. His forehead and bald
occiput looked scholarly ; his eyes were rather mild,
with the troubled look of the priest ; and the rest of
him certainly looked somewhat hard, if not sporting.
He wore a peculiar black coat, which he was wont to
describe as a 'capitular cut-away,' — straight, single-
breasted, collarless, of Melton cloth as tough as leather,
and dependent for its character entirely on his nether
garments. At present, in black Bedford cords and
butcher-boots, he looked like a chastened horse-dealer.
In smooth trousers, he resembled an excited archdeacon.
Thus ran his observations : —

Letter XX. R. R. to F. L.

My dear Flora:

As to Charles's club letters left unanswered,

whereof many: (i) No. ; just joined club; can't

attend any school of art ; has drawn a good deal in her
own way ; sends specimens and nice letter, asking what
she had better do. Answer : Get my book, — ' Oxford
Art Manual' She has an eye for colour (you all have),
distances good, and foreground weak. She must copy
plaster casts of heads in sepia (that will enlarge her
ideas of light, shade, and perspective), and do a series
of simple flowers in water-colour, getting them as bright
as ever she can, which will show her all about colour.
No use going on with views. (2) Miss Milton is at it

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*55

again. Wants to know what solidity is in drawing, and
how she is to get it into her foregrounds. Draw every-
thing in right perspective, and always have something
— anything — in front, to lead into the picture. Per-
spective does it. Think of the square box we had in
Charles's sixth letter. Wants to know what quality
means. Quality of colour means purity or truth of hue ;
of form, purity or truth of curve ; of composition and
painting in general, right arrangement and relation of
tone. I suspect that young lady of an inclination to
try to shut me up ; and recommend severe drawing,
which will be much better for her. (By the by, I heard
one of the little girls who had been to the drawing-
school, and quarrelled with her companion, reduce her
antagonist to tears by calling her a wicked mixed pig-
ment ; and really it sounded terrible : do try it on

Susan). (3) How is No. to learn finish? Virtually

the same question as the first. She is a little stronger
in her work, and ought to take a large inossy stone, or
a tree-trunk with a few ivy-leaves, and do it in colour,
with whatever comes behind it, as she sees it. (4) Had
not the club better send their critic outlined sketches
of proposed drawings, or work in progress, to ask his
advice ? Yes, of course ; but I shouldn't advise the
critic to send them back again, unless he is to get a
great deal more for his work. But to have a drawing
(of the same subject by all hands) in progress all the
year, and send it month by month, or every two months,
in the portfolios, would not give him so much additional
trouble. The rest of the letters amount to this, for the
most part, that the writers have not time to work at
drawing. Why write to say so ? Try something you
have time for. Now that drawing is so much studied,
and by many people, rich and poor, with the greatest

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

energy, and on good methods ; now that, in conse-
quence, good workmanship is cheap, — it may not be
worth while to produce fifth-rate stuff. But when once
you begin to work hard at a cast, or can do a single
petal right, you begin to gain something, whether what
you produce is pretty or not. Doing pretty things
easily is the silliest employment, even in the art way,
of which a sane creature is capable. To conclude : let
all these parties get my book, which contains all things
needful.

Now, for some more about colour, Charles's notes
carry the subject a good way; but there is some more
to be added about general tone of shadow, I see. You
know, — first, in pictures, all things are seen (or are de-
fined in form so as to be known for what they are) by
shadows ; secondly, all those shadows are coloured
things, neither pure white nor black : therefore, thirdly,
white and black in a picture ought to be treated as
colours, yet as separate colours at the top and bottom
of the scale, — vanishing-points of hue, in fact. Thus
a black object will be black in quite a different sense
from 'black' shadow, and will look altogether unlike
it in the picture. A crow, and the shadow of crow,
are different colours. The shadow depends on the colour
of the grass it falls on ; the black of the feathers (unless
they are under sunshine, and flashing in the light) is
positive and separate. So of white : if you are to have
white in your picture at all (except in dots and splashes,
like crests of waves, &c, which I don't count), if you are
to have a pure white object of definite form for the eye
to rest on, it must take the lead in your picture, like
Wouvermans' white horse. You cannot have anything
brighter ; you ought not to have anything quite so
bright : but all things should be subdued for its sake,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 2$J

and gradated up to it. And, further, the white object
itself can't be pure oxide of zinc, or even very white
paper : it must be modelled in yellow, or rose, or
neutral yellowish-brown, or olive ; all which are model-
ling shadow-tints, which will go with white, purples,
and blues and greens ; and cold shadows are only
fit for chill or painful effect. You will hardly find
pure white in all Turner's gray paper drawings ; there
is always yellow or pink or green in it : and, if you
will put a small patch of thick Chinese-white (oxide
of zinc) anywhere in one of your own, it will rather
surprise you by its crudity. To keep it at all, you will
have to reduce its size to nothing, and gradate up to
it amidst great difficulties. With the scientific use
of tinted whites in ideal -conventional paintings, like
Moore's, or symphonies of colour, like Whistler's, I've
nothing to do : but you cannot have much of it in
a landscape ; and what you do have should convey
a sense of light and purity, and be, as the Professor
says, precious. Then when you have a black object,
as I said, it should behave as such, and be like a crow
jn a field, or a raven in a moorland landscape, or quaint
characteristic blot. ' Black should look strange among
the coloured shadows, never occurring except in a black
object, or in small points indicative of the intensest
shade in the centre of masses of shadow.'

Nothing but long practice, and long study of the best
landscape-work — I should say, with Turner's, some of
Alfred Hunt's and Goodwin's water-colouring — can teach
you how much may be done by stippling colours into
each other ; for the dodges and ' malices ' of it are quite
infinite. But cloud-drawing will teach you a good deal
of it. Study a cumulus, or rain-cloud, and try and copy
a bit of Turner's storms. Or do some purplish-gray

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

clouds with good forms, and try to stipple on a pink
glow with solid colour, used in faint touches and
crumblings and hatchings. Try to darken a hillside in
middle distance, by putting on masses of pines or other
trees in different hues of shade. In fact, the artifices
of varied colour change continually with subject and
circumstances, and I don't know what more to say
about it.

I think, when Charles writes again, he will tell you
something of what you should not do or care for in
your colouring. Quant a moi, I am sure you will always
do good by observing, imitating, and executing varia-
tions on natural contrasts of colour, — purple and green,
yellow and gray, and so on. But purple, green, gray,
and colour itself, are all relative terms, expressing our
personal ideas of hue, which we cannot accurately com-
pare with each other, certainly not describe to each
other. Colours are personal and objective, like every-
thing else in art. But there is a sort of morbid, upholster-
ous fear of bright colour now, which is sadly against
naturalist landscape. I really think so much broadcast
art-teaching addles people's brains, and makes them
more absurd than they need be. We used to say in
Christ Church, that real ignorance required machinery to
get it to a real climax ; and we tried it once. The
whole staff of us lectured in logic, each man to his
pupils, for a whole term with much zeal ; then, at the
end of it, we became, as the dear old Dean delighted
to call us, a Board of Examiners ; and every man ex-
amined his neighbour's pupils in the art of reason.
Such a donkey-race ! Of course, there were some good
ones, but, in a general way, such wild misconception,
and impertinent idiocy, and fluent hallucination, as we
got, must be rare, even in Oxford. Well, there are

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259

books about colour, and decoration^ and all that ; and
they have done some good, no doubt. They have
taught the common oppositions of colour which are or
may be fit for dress and furniture, and have taught
people to use half-tints, and produced one or two nice
olive-greens, and green-grays, and pinks ; but Morris
and Faulkner, or Mr, Holliday, are almost alone as
educated men of original power and thorough training,,
who can really do the thing by principle and invention
together. I don't blame the workmen : I think the
public has not the sense to take pains to spend its
money properly. But now for a few principles. The
oppositions of natural hue will do in a room. Only
half-tints ought to come over large surfaces of colour,
as walls ; they ought to be subdued, because they can-
not be gradated ; they ought to please the eye half
unconsciously, and not challenge attention, or ask to be
looked at hard. Brown and gray; then brown runs
into purple, and finally to crimson, and gray to green,
and then yellow, and the opposition is good throughout ;
but as to dictating which tint against which, it depends
on climate, character, size, — I don't know what. Then
there is the putting-in small bits of bright or. pure
colour in opposition, like pure pale crimson spots into
an olive-green or yellow-and-white wall-paper. You
should see this artifice in the intensely bright colours
of a yellow Arab kefiyeh, the silk scarf they wear instead
of a turban in the desert. The ground of it is an in-
tense yellow; the broad border, a bright deep red; and
along it, with gold-and-silver threads, are stripes of rich
purple; and in the midst of the yellow the brightest
turquoise. But these incongruous colours are placed in
such small quantity of narrow stripes (the turquoise
only three or four threads), and are so set in narrow

S 2

■z6o

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

white spaces, that the result is somehow a brilliant har-
mony. I think I've seen rich apple-green in them too.

I'm so sick of artistic colours t and the notion of them
is so wrong! Folds of dress in one monotonous half-
tint never can be like Veronese's folds of rich colour,
blended and gradated with all his science and passion ;
and, till you get a whole trade of dyers like Tintoret,
the indescribable Venetian draperies never can be imi-
tated by the skirts of Mayfair : you may be sure of that.
And then the women they painted had all plenty of
colour in their cheeks and hair; and really, to see a
washed-out looking damsel in a washed-out looking pale
green, fancying herself like Titian, is lamentable indeed.
Besides, in Venice, in that day, women wore real stuffs
and genuine silks, and materials rich and real. And
then, to make matters worse, people cut their sham
Titianesque dresses up into tunics and sacks, and hack
them into bunchy Dolly- Vardenisms, and Louis Quinze
absurdities. And a lot of benighted beings dress and
decorate up to a period, and revive drabs and light
blues, and chilly gildings, and spindle-shanked chairs,
and pianos on stilts, because the worship of ugliness
was carried out that way under the Directory. I am
sure bright positive colours, with plenty of white, ought
to come in again in ladies' dress, if you are not to lose
your eyes for naturalist colour altogether. I saw a
crab-tree just in flower the other day, with fresh
Hooker's green leaves, white, green, and rose, and
thought how you would look in a gown of the same.
May must abide by her black and amber, or rose and
white, I suppose, with her dark hair and eyes. Shocking,
my talking about these matters.

Ever yours affectionately,

R. R.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

P.S. — Poor Mrs. Beecroft writes in alarm about May's
joining ' a chalybeate order.' Can she mean ' celibate' ?

Letter XXL R. R. to F. L.

Red Scaurs,

June — , 1 8 — .

My Dear Flora :

Charles's last letter on colour went almost to
the end of the subject, I thought, — as far as he could
follow it in giving rules for what you ought to do and
attempt and care about ; but I find some capital ob-
servations further, on matters which you ought not to
be troubled with, and they seem to come to this (I think
the end of the last letter cautioned you against that
sickly fear of pure and bright colour, which is infecting
fine art, and seems to be derived from milliners' and
upholsterers' notions about dress and furniture) : —

First, do not think that local colour will help you with
form, for local colour flattens everything. Second, don't
be bound by, or care much about, what people say and
write about approaching or retiring colours. Warm
colours, reds and yellows, are said to express nearness,
and cold ones, blues and grays, to express distance.
Well, sometimes they do and sometimes they don't :
it depends on the subject in which they are used, and its
associations. It is a good thing for you to know little
practical dodges about the pigments ; as for example,
that Venetian red is the best red to decorate a high
vault or ceiling, because it 'looks more distant' than
other reds, — but there is no workable rule about ad-
vancing and retiring colours. It is their quality (as

%6i

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

depth, delicacy, &c.) which expresses distance, not their
hue. Blue in a picture is a sign of distance, because
mist and air are blue, and a warm colour a long way off
is often lost in the mist, or modified in colour by it. In
the same way, quoth the Professor, brown may be
called a retiring colour, because when stones are seen
through brown water, the farther off they are the
browner they look ; and yellow may be a retiring colour,
because when objects are seen through a London fog,
the farther they are off the yellower they look. Neither
blue nor yellow nor red have any power of expressing
either nearness or distance in themselves. A blue gown
in a haberdasher's shop does not look any farther off
than a red gown, and a red cloud in an evening sky
always looks farther off than a blue one, and so it is.
So orange is a sign of nearness in an orange, because it
is not so bright farther off ; in a sunset cloud it is a sign
of distance, because you don't get that bright colour on the
vapour when it is near you : it is all matter of experience.
And even force and pitch of colour do not necessarily
express nearness, and delicacy or paleness the contrary.
A foreground of primroses or blue hyacinth may be
faint and delicate enough ; but they will look much
nearer than tree-trunks or heavy clouds beyond, accord-
ing to drawing. I made a note for this letter this morn-
ing in the Raven's Gill ; — you remember that darling
green place here where one scrambles up the deep gill,
what you call a dingle, up over great grit stones, with
every one a whole garden of mosses on every square
inch of him ; and Charley's pre-Rafaelite pun, about
humouring rocks and drawing them according to their
little lichens. Well, if the heather had been out at the
bottom of the glen close to me, it would have been
delicate and pale purple; if I had been looking at

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263

heathery hills far away, they would have been deep
intense purple. 1 The rose colour of sunset on snow is
pale on the snow at your feet, deep and full on the snow
in distance ; and the green of a Swiss lake is pale in the
clear waves on the beach, but intense as an emerald in
the sunstreak, six miles away from shore. And you may
have a dark purple, blue-green or ultramarine distance
in clouds, or sea, against a close foreground of pale
sands or bright flowers, or anything which strongly re-
flects light. Never mind any rules of aerial perspective ;
match the colours of things faithfully wherever they be,
near or far. Nature doesn't want you to measure space :
the power of discerning distance fairly by the eye over
an unknown space is really limited to a few hundred
yards ; and you would have a bad time of it every time
you painted the sun setting, if you had to express his
95,000,000 miles of distance in aerial perspective.'

The ins and outs and apparent contradictions are very
bad all through this subject. Though all shadows are
coloured, still they are of darker and colder colour than
the local hue of the thing itself which they shade — and
when the thing is very eclatant and glowing the local
colour fairly beats the form-shadows, as I told you1. In
a scarlet geranium or a primrose, or a blue gentian, or
one of those intense purple pansies, you cannot see the
delicate structural shading of the petals, the local colour
is too much for it. And so, it cannot be said that colour
interprets form, or makes it any clearer to you. Of
course in a dissected map one country is of one colour
and is known by it, and in a pair of top-boots you know

1 Structural shade or the modelling of form is, of course, a dif-
ferent matter from cast shadow of one object on another in sun-
shine. The latter prevails over everything.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

which are the tops and which are the boots by their
colour. What I mean is, that where your attention is
really called to colour, from its subtlety, or intensity,
or on account of its beauty, however you put it, you
more or less lose sight of form : and that consequently
and practically, when you are dealing with the intensest
or subtlest colour you can produce in painting, you will
have to give up forms which you would insist upon if
you were drawing in fine pencil. Certainly it would
be so with the flowers I have mentioned. But, on
the other hand, you will never be able to put the right
touches of colour in the right places, get the right
gradations of colour, and so on, without severe study
of form : and every good colourist in landscape must
work as hard as he can at it. At the end, when you
have really learned to put the right touch of the right
shape in the right place at the right strength, and that
infallibly, you will be right in both colour and form. You
will then be able to paint the pinks and gray-purples and
yellows of a peach all right, and it will look beautifully
round. But it will not be your pinks and yellows which
will give the peach its look of roundness ; it will be
their gradations, and relations of difference. And when
all's done, your peach, perfectly imitated, looking as if
it could be taken up, and making one positively feel
greedy about it, will be hardly so round-looking as if
you had done it with your best care in light and shade.
Light and shade, or chiaroscuro as they will call it, is
abstract form, abstracted or withdrawn from colour :
and I don't think it is in human nature not to see more
form when colour is withdrawn, or not to be able to
draw and record more form, when the great difficulties
of colouring are withdrawn.

Well, the last advice about colouring is, always take it

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265

coolly, and let everything dry before you touch it again.
If you will only mix two colours at a time \ you may
always let the result dry in peace if it be pretty right
in form, for you can change it ad libitum by glazing ; but
right or wrong or anyhow, never touch wet colour, once
spread, a second time : if you puddle it with the brush
you lose the peculiar beauty with which the particles
arrange themselves on the paper as the water medium
dries away from them. That is the use of form. Know
your forms before you put them on, and then every
patch of hue will go on with quickness and precision,
and infallibly be beautiful in itself as a patch of hue, as
it ought to be. When anything is decidedly wrong
after drying, wash it clean out all over and put it in
again, — whenever you wash at all, wash out. I would
never wash over for effect, where warm colour has once
gone on, and as seldom as possible over sky or distance.
Your usual process will be, first the masses — then out-
lines of form all over in pen and colour to guide the
brush — then forms in coloured shadows — perhaps glazes
to bring together, and darker touches to bring out
again — some powerful reserved darks in foreground —
and all the hatchings and stipplings you like to put
in, in pure colour or clear gray.

And always, point de zele, don't be in a hurry, or
think you can do too much at a heat or in a sitting.
When one is tired, one's temper goes, and as sure as
that happens things go wrong : and hurry is a symptom
of fatigue towards the end of a sketch, or of a day's
work. When you want to get done, leave off. And
meanwhile for practice, this Exercise, Fig. 30 in the

1 Excepting in neutral shades, where a yellow, a blue, and a red
may be mixed for background or dark shadow. See above, p. 243.

266

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Elements, will be the very thing for all of you to prac-
tise— all the best of you with the others. Two twin
cottages, balconies, windows, shingly roof and eaves :
to be expressed in some detail, with one tint of gray
and a few dispersed spots and lines of it. And you
ought to be able to do all that without dipping your
brush more than three times; and without a single
touch after the tint is dry.

Practise that till you can do it well, and you will soon
be surprised at your own sharpness and vigour in open-
air sketching. These flat patches of tint, by which one
works in colour, I suppose must be called patches or
spaces ; or perhaps masses : they are not outlines, though
they possess them ; nor are they forms, which possess
both light and shade. They are called masses, I think,
in the Oxford Lectures, and that appears on the whole
to be the best word for them. But the power of all
your painting depends on the hold you have of the
form in which your masses of coloured shade shall come
on the paper.

Now, then, for the hardest of all, which is to interpret

Fig. 24.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

267

Charles's views on Composition, gathered in a great
degree from the Professor, but carefully digested with
the full powers of what he is pleased to call his mind :
I wish he knew it a little better on other matters. Well,
Composition is making one thing out of several things,
combining from their various natures a new nature or
unity. A book is composed of thoughts and words ;
a picture, of thoughts, forms and colours. There must
be an intended unity ; a thousand of bricks or so are
not composed into a heap as they are shot out of a cart,
they are composed into a house according to foreknown
plan. About the words Purpose, Character, and so on,
we have had enough. What I must go on about is, that
the Unity or Compound Idea expressed in the picture
or poem consists of ever so many compounding ideas :
these have to be arranged in proper order and relation
so as to lead up to the One central impression har-
moniously, without interfering with each other. And
though no rules can be given for this in anything —
though no picture worth the name can ever be painted
by rule — still principles may be got at chiefly by obser-
vation of great works, and seeing how great men have
worked up their ideas, the many minor into the one
greater. There is no better view of these principles for
landscape than that which is given in the Elements, and
C. and I are commissioned to work that up again for
you. They are simple rules of arrangement : you cannot
invent or have ideas by rule, perhaps not by study ; but
when you have a subject of thought and painting, you
will set it forth with the proper trimmings, and in better
style, by understanding how that work has been done
before.

The chief example is Turner's Ehrenbreitstein ; and
just under this there is a nice plan or sketch of

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB,

the picture. And I should think it was chosen as an
example of composition not only because its arrange-
ment is easily explained as well as subtle, but because
it is a regular landscape, of nature in beauty, without
direct appeal to human passion. It is all calm : it is
the very contrary of what is called sensation. That
means weakness in convulsion : this is strength in re-
pose. Sensation in its very best sense, if it has any, is
the appeal to feeling made by the human tragedy ; that

Fig. 25.

is to say, according to the definition of tragedy, by man
overpowered by circumstance. Now, here you are not
immediately concerned with the doings of man ; they
are not represented ; but you are reminded of what
Ehrenbreitstein could do. Do you remember Hood's
housemaid's description of Coblentz, in ' Up the Rhine' :
' This is a bewtiful city which is under the proteckshin
of a grate Fortress on the other side of the river, as
can batter the town all to bits in a minit.' Briefly
put : but that is the idea which inevitably strikes every-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

body in coming up the Rhine, and it's quite clear it
struck Turner. Well, he got down to near the actual
meeting of the great waters, or supposed a point near it
on the Moselle ; and there it all was, power in repose ;
the maiden fortress, as grim as a Valkyr, and the city
and bridge. And the genius of his composition, the
unity of its invention, the purpose of the picture in
Turner's mind, is not only to make a very pretty land-
scape of a very lovely subject, but to invest the subject
in the mind of the spectator with what he felt and
thought about the whole concern.

Well, now, it gave him an all-embracing notion of
strength in repose, or peace tolerably prepared for war,
in a country where men have done battle generation
after generation. So the old tower on the old bridge
is his leading or master feature. And of course in every
picture you do, you must have a leading feature, and
must make the eye go to it first of all the other features.
That may be done by making it a prominent form, or
a principal light, or a principal dark, or a principal con-
trast. In figure subject, or subject of immediate human
interest, it is perhaps easier to insist on one's leading
feature. It is done academically by arranging figures
in a pyramid, and putting the chief in the centre, or
placing them in ovoid curves about the canvas.

Rembrandt places his chief interest in the middle of
his principal light with grand dark contracted figures :
sometimes using light on flesh very wonderfully 1. The
simplest example of this is in the various Holy Families,

1 As in the Susanna and Elders in Sir E. A. H. Lechmere's col-
lection. Apart from its artistic value, this great work has the
advantage of being the least offensive treatment of the most lament-
able of the great public subjects. It is distressing enough not

270

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

in which the light of the picture is made to radiate from
the Infant Saviour. Again, with landscape subjects
which appeal to some great event, or make stirring call
on some one feeling, composition is easier, because the
leading interest takes the lead of itself ; — Turner's Riz-
pah, Cephalus and Procris, Jason, and others, are good
examples. You have only to put your event in a prin-
cipal light, and make the other things lead and point to
it. In pure landscape again, the painter simply leads
the eye to his favourite passage : the motive of the pic-
ture is what he thinks its principal beauty. If he enjoys
his distance most, his foreground will not have very
marked figures, or they will be moving on into his distance
in perspective ; if he delights in his foreground and
figures, he will make his distance into their background.
When the picture involves no action or passion or re-
membrance of human life, its motive and leading idea or
feature is to be found in its chief beauty ; and the most
successful landscape composition is that which surrounds
the most beautiful passage of landscape, with others, in
subordinate positions, which assist it by harmony or
contrast, like the setting of a large fine stone. That
subordination secures unity : or, in other words, it tells
you in a word or two what the picture is about ; or at
all events puts you on the right scent, or strikes the
right key-note, — any expression of the sort, though
I think key-note is the best, because one's mind echos

to be disgusting. The expression of utter horror and shrinking
terror which convulses the leading figure, actually depriving it of its
natural and accustomed beauty, elevates the character of the work
and its author alike. We have reason to be thankful that this
apocryphal narrative is no longer read ' for example and instruction
of morals ' in the English Church Service.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

271

and re-echos to the clear well-struck thought, and it
gives one ideas of one's own.

Now let's try the woodcut of Turner's Ehrenbreitstein
by this. The tower on the Moselle bridge is the key-
note. It is the happiest thing in the world its being
there, for it is a picturesque old tete du pont> and marks
that the bridge had to be defended in other days, and
that East Franks and West Franks felled each other
on the Rhine ever since old Roman days at the Con-
fluentia. Modern fortification is ugly enough for its
infernal purposes ; and Turner only suggests it, on the
right. But in the bridge-tower he gives his hint of
fields fought long ago, and sets one's thoughts the
way his went. Then further, to keep you in that key,
you can't help running your eye from the top of the
bridge-tower to the top of the fortified cliff of Ehren-
breitstein. It is a grand mass of rock, but it is so
reduced by aerial perspective of colour that it cannot
stand against the tower as a leading feature ; it carries
on and confirms its impression, of repose or intermis-
sion of strife, the greatest repose of all.

This is our first note then —

The Law of Principality or (Leading) Motive
and Leading Feature (1)

Fig. 26.

This example speaks for itself : the two leaderless leaves
(a) are not so pretty, the three (b) with a leader are
prettier, the five (c) with a gradation of superiority are
prettiest.

272

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Let's just have the others as given —

The Law of Repetition or Echo (2)

„ Continuity or Monotone (3)

„ Curvature (4)

„ Radiation (5)

„ Contrast (6)

„ Interchange (7)

„ Consistency (8)

„ Harmony (9)

Law is as good a word as any other ; but these rules are
in fact generalisations, by the best observer in the world,
from nature and the best pictures in the world. And
they are not so much rules for us, as principles to be
borne in mind by us, in looking at other men's pictures,
and in doing them for ourselves, when we indulge in that
vanity. The first is stated ; now for the second — Repe-
tition or Echo.

Unity in a picture is the sympathy of its groups or
parts, different things going the same way : it does
not matter how different, if they guide one's thoughts
in the right direction. When Turner wants to give
a notion of a brook in summer, he introduces a bird
drinking at it ; when Tintoret wants us to understand
the force of the River of the Wrath of God he puts in
pine-branches rending in it. That is an echo of idea
or feeling ; but Turner has another and perhaps more
important, at least more technically important way of
repeating passages of colour ; and so have other great
composers. In Pembroke Castle for instance, there are
two fishing boats, one with a red and another with a
white sail. In a line with them on the beach are two
fish in precisely the same relative positions, one red and
one white. Now this kind of repetition is somehow
connected with human feeling about repose and quiet.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

173

In general throughout Nature reflection and repetition
are peaceful things. Reflection means a chief result of
calm in water, and tells on the eye at once in a picture,
But repetition is associated with quiet succession of
events, — that one day should be like another day, or one
history be the reflection of another history, being more
or less results of quietness ; while dissimilarity and
broken succession are the results of interference and dis-
quiet. The cuckoo's note, or mowers whetting scythes,
are harsh unpleasant sounds in themselves ; but re-
peated again and again, as they are in early summer
about the country, they are soothing and pleasant to a
degree. Now in the example there is a little tower on
the left of the big one, and without it the big one looks
most forlorn. All the spires in Coblentz are arranged
in pairs ; — the mast of the distant boat just hides the
artifice when repeated for the third time. There is a
large boat, and its echo, two more distant ones with
two men apiece, and the nearer cliff of Ehrenbreitstein
is repeated by the round bank with a little girl sitting
on it. Things are all in pairs — 'Jack shall have Gill,
nought shall go ill' — there is a general repose.

Then the words Symmetry and Balance are best taken
up in this connection, for they give the idea of repetition,
broken echo, or likeness with a difference. The likeness
leads, but the difference is necessary. A figure against
its reversed reflection in water produces symmetry.
Nature is never formal, and difference is always secured,
or change and movement take its place. You are very
symmetrical yourself, I think ; but if you stood mathe-
matically upright and stiff, with hands at your sides,
toes turned out at 900 and eyes at attention, you would
lose much of the quality. You are never quiet for a
moment you know ; and never look, in consequence, as

274

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

if you could be divided into two right or left halves,
like boots. In fact, boots made right and left are
symmetrical, while straight boots are not so, exactly
on account of this necessary difference, which exists in
a simple way in one, and doesn't exist in the other.
I think much of the grace of human movement (feminine
in particular) results from the differences in play and
subtle change between the right and the left side.

A severe living symmetry and balance of harmonious
groups or opposite figures, is characteristic of the greater
sacred compositions, particularly Giotto's in the church
of S. Francis at Assisi, upper and lower, and many of
Perugino's works — especially the Madonna in the Na-
tional Gallery, with the Angel Michael on one side and
Raphael on the other. Balance and symmetry are ex-
pressive of calm, repose and order, then, in landscape
as in figure-painting : and as in that, a dull man will
carry out the principle formally, a brilliant one brilliantly.
But in this Coblentz example you will easily see how the
boats on one side of the tower and the figures on the
other, are nearly equal masses balancing each other on
either side of the tower, which is like the upright rod of
the balance, in which they may be supposed to hang.

3. Law of Continuity.

This way of producing or expressing unity consists in
giving connected succession to a number of more or less
similar objects, and disciplining them to act in relation
to each other at different distances from the spectator.
Ranges of pillars in a cathedral, or mountain promon-
tories one beyond another, or flocks of cirrus-cloud
* shepherded' to the horizon ' by the slow unwilling wind'
— all different shapes moving in the same order re-

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275

spectively — are good examples. If they are all' of the
same shape, continuity becomes monotony, and is dis-
agreeable, for the most part — you can't make much of a
perspective of telegraph-posts. The best possible ex-
ample of the true thing is Turner's sketch below — Calais
Sands at sunset, a rough woodcut which gives a sufficient
idea of such an arrangement. And here, for once, let's
have one of the Professor's descriptions in his own form.

Fig. 27.

' The aim of the painter has been to give the intensest
expression of repose, together with the enchanted, lulling,
monotonous motion of cloud and wave. All the clouds
are moving in innumerable ranks after the sun, meeting
towards the point in the horizon where he has set ; and
the tidal waves gain in winding currents upon the sand,
with that stealthy haste in which they cross each other
so quietly at their edges ; just folding one over another
as they meet, like a little piece of ruffled silk, and leaping
up a little, as two children kiss and clap their hands, and
then going on again, each in its silent hurry, drawing

T 2,

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pointed arches on the sand as their thin edges intersect
in parting : but all this would not have been enough
expressed without the aid of the old pier-timbers, black
with weeds, strained and bent by the storm-waves, and
now seeming to stoop in following one another, like dark
ghosts escaping slowly from the cruelty of the pursuing
sea.'

Ah, dear me, what a deal of stuff we've all written in
imitation of that, since it came out in '57 — but we did
not choose a bad model, and some of us wrote fair
English too. Well, Turner acts by this law of continuity
in the first example also when he dwells so on the
bridge ; for its long succession, of retiring arches were
the first thing — at least after the old tower — that caught
his eye and technical fancy. I don't know, I'm sure,
whether he thought about all the wars of France and
Germany ; I said he must have thought of something
of the kind close to Ehrenbreitstein, — but this bridge
was his artistic reason for painting the picture ; it came
as he wanted it to come. His reason for being so
fond of long irregular bridges (see Rivers of France, &c.)
is given in the Elements with great ingenuity. He
felt that that sort of bridge indicates the nature of
the river it crosses so much better than some grand
high show-engineering effort, which strides right over
a valley regardless of everything. The old Moselle
bridge is like other old things of the same kind, built
with irregularly-sized arches, wherever the best rock-
foundation was found at the bottom of the river, or
wherever the currents came, in time of flood, on the flat
or shallow side of the river. And the larger arches were
built where the river was deepest and strongest — on one
side and not in the middle, as is always the way with
a mountain river, or a river which still remembers the

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 2JJ

mountains. You know how the water always swings
from angle to angle, so that there are alternate deeps
and shallows on both sides, forming salmon-pools in
some of the happier lands up north. Well, the great
currents must have greater arches for their floods, and
the greater arches must be higher, or they would tumble
down ; and that is why the bridge takes, or pictorially
speaking, ought to take, the form of a large arch, and
why the highest point of the bridge is found over the
deepest part of the river. Thus we have the general
type of bridge, with its highest and widest arch towards
one side, and a train of minor arches running over the
flat shore on the other : though if the current be
strongest in the middle it must be highest near the
middle. But usually there will be the full force of the
river near one side, a steep, or at least a hollow curve
('wave-worn horns of the echoing bank') on that side,
with a large arch,— and a flat shore on the other side,
with a number of small ones. That is our best example
of Continuity.

4. Law of Curvature.

Notice the subtle curves all over the small woodcut
Fig. 2 5- They are perceptible there ; but two larger
ones are given, 28, 29. I think you have drawn enough
to feel the painter's dislike to straight lines and regular
curves ; but if not, just try what straight lines across
Turner's bridge, on both sides along the top, from
side to side, will make of it, if you put them in-
stead of the curves. Curvature certainly is a condition
of beauty, and curved lines more beautiful than straight
ones — though nearly-straight ones have their indis-
pensable uses, like the perpendicular of the tower and

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279

arches — and for a good composition it is necessary that
the eye be led about the picture from one prominent
object to another in curved lines. You will find in the
woodcut of Ehrenbreitstein, Figs. 25 and 28, that a line
drawn from the top of the higher bridge tower, touching
the angle of the smaller one and a seated figure below on
the left, and finishing in one of the wooden spars, makes

Fig. 29.

a very beautiful springing curve. Another starts along
the great rudder on the left, touches the back and head
of the figure sitting on it, and swings up to the top
of the tower again. Three more are combined of the
curved forms of the three boats, and reach the tower top
in the same way. Then the seven towers of Ehrenbreit-
stein all but touch a grand curve of profile down the
hill, two only falling a little short to disguise the artifice.

28o

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And this is more beautiful, just as the old-fashioned or
typical form of the bridge is more beautiful, because it
indicates natural structure. Towers might have been built
beyond the present curve, or not have been built there at
all, but undoubtedly the basalt rock below would take it ;
for that is a governing form of all mountain masses which
are not cloven into precipices or covered with straight
slopes of shale. You can see this by drawing profiles of
the moors where they dip down into gills, or of the
slopes and cliffs of downs on the chalk, or on the sea-
coast : but it is one of the great lessons you are sure
to learn in a mountain country. I think I should send
everybody to Switzerland early, for great broad lessons
in structure of hills and valleys, and to see Nature really
at rough work, and for a great enthusiasm if possible —
then I should keep them all at home for twenty years'
practice in smaller things ; and then send the best sur-
vivors once more to the Alps to do what they liked.
That, or something like it, was the course Turner went
through.

Graceful curvature is distinguished from ungraceful
first by its moderation ; that is to say, by being nearly
straight in some part of it — if strongly bent at another ;
and then by its variation, never remaining equal in
degree. None of the mechanical curves, segments of
circles, ellipses and the like, are beautiful, though the
parabola and the hyperbola consist of a pair each of
beautiful curves. On this subject, if you will go into
it, you must read the dissertation in vol. iv. of Modern
Painters. If you want to fill your mind, or memory, or
inner eye, with the most graceful curves, study wings.
In common sketchers' talk, you know, we speak of
sweeping curves and springing curves, or better perhaps
of the springing and the sweeping part of the same

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28l

curve. The curve through the two towers, the figure
and the spar is a very springing one : that of the top
line of the bridge, and still more that formed by the
water-line of the bay directly below the bridge is re-
peated in the foreground and continued out of the
picture on the right by the ripples — those I should call
sweeping curves or pairs of curves. And I think if you
look at the wings of any birds of powerful flight they
will give you a notion of springing life and beauty in
their lines. Grouse or teal for short-winged birds, hawks
or gulls for long- winged. The expression of vital
strength in both depends on the more or less severe
line of the shoulder and long quills, and on the power-
ful bend of the former. Of course the radiation of the
feathers from the bone adds greatly to the effect. And
as for the connection between wings and mountains, the
debris-curves of a place at the foot of Mont Blanc are
drawn at plate 43 of vol. iv. Modern Painters ; and they
are exactly those of a woodcock's wing. The mountain
curvatures drawn in that volume are more instructive, if
you read them at home, than a visit to the place would
be without them.

The word ' springing' makes one think of vigorous
effort, and the origin of the curve of a wing, or that
specified in the woodcut, represents the idea in and
by means of line. Such curves as those of a distant
shore may be called sweeping, because, being nearly
straight for so great a part of them, they convey the
idea of distance in perspective, of space and in fact of
infinity. Curves which radiate from a centre, like those
of wings, leaves, and vegetation in general, are felt as
springing with finite life, and go as far as they can.
But it is hardly necessary to distinguish these from each
other after all, as almost all good lines spring vividly

282

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from their origin and sweep off into severity of curve
afterwards.

You or Susan once said something about the melan-
choly of a quiet river, especially at evening and morn-
ing. That is all perspective line : the banks lead the
eye away into the far distance, to the horizon and be-
yond, over the hills and far away. It is the visible
symbol of eternity and infinity, and strikes upon one's
spirit by quality of line, as the sounds ' far away,' and
' never more,' do by strange quality of sound. The
boughs in perspective give one a sense of the wandering
and unreturning flow of the river and its quiet power ;
and above all of its passing away into the outer sea and
river or ocean that flows round all the world. Moreover,
the line of a river in a picture on the horizon generally
contains a number of vanishing-points of other lines.

Fig. 30.

You ought to have two or three specimens of good
and bad curves, a is bad, being part of a circle, and
monotonous, b is good, because it continually changes
its direction as it proceeds. If you can't see it, put

Fig. 31.

leaves on them, and you will see that a is quite limp
without any will or spring of his own.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

All these are good curves (Fig. 32), and if you want to
spoil them, you have only to turn them into segments of
circles.

Fig. 32.

5. Law of Radiation.

I think almost as much as you can manage on this
head has been said in the letters about tree-drawing.
Radiation is the connection of lines by their all springing
from one point or closing towards it, and it enters into the
beauty of all vegetable form. The chestnut leaves (Fig.
26), which illustrate the Law of Principality, are examples
of this law also : but in the whole tree this law of beauty
is seen in a more complicated manner, in the arrange-
ment of the large boughs and sprays. The leaf is flat,
but the tree radiates all round like a fountain — we said
something of the inner fountain of the sap springing up
through the trunk to the boughs and foliage. And the
branches, being bigger and older, develope more cha-
racter of their own, and radiate with more will of their

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

own, not so strictly according to law as the ribs of the
leaves. Yet it has been ascertained that in all trees
the angle of the lateral ribs of the leaves with their
central spine, is approximately the same at which the
branches leave their stem ; and thus a section of the
tree would be like a magnified view of its own leaf, but
for the force of gravity which is always at work on the
branches. The leverage of their own weight bears them
down, day by day, and year by year : accordingly the
lower or older branches bend down the most, and the
older a bough is the lower .it hangs. Besides this, beau-

tiful trees have a way of dividing themselves into double
masses, something in this form (Fig. 41). If you re-
member this, and the forms of minor radiation given in
the tree-letter (Fig. 17 b) you will have a sort of handy
general notion of the Law of Radiation, as trees illus-
trate it. And remember, in the same letter, how the
ends of the sprays were compared to hands hollowed
palms upwards with outspread fingers. It is more ac-
curate to represent them by the ribs of a boat, as if
a very broad flat boat rested on its keel at the end
of a main branch. Fig. 23 is the natural bough from

Fig. 33-

Fig. 17 b.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

below ; Fig. 34 the flattened boat ; Fig 35 the look of
such a bough seen from above.

It is not always easy to see the radiations of a system
of curves in a great picture, because obedience to the
law is disguised, and the master is often found to have
placed the centres of convergence or radiation far out

Fig. 34.

of his picture. But it is easy to see what it is in the
Turner woodcut, Fig. 25. It is the tower again. One curve
joins the two towers, down into the back of the sitting
figure on the left, and the spar ; another goes along the
rudder and backs of the nearer figures on the left ; the
boats begin others, as I said before, and the long re-
flection of the tower holds all together, continuing its

Fig. 35-

vertical lines, and giving that expression of repose which
nothing but calm water can give. Then the sweeping
loops at the foot of the bridge point out how the current
has swept round on the left in two sets or reaches ; and
the baggage on the narrow tongue of land is a sort of
pedestal to add to the height of the tower. On the

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

same principle, in Fig. 19, the foliage illustration, the
farmer and his stick are put under two of the trees to
add height. The interior curves of the bushes radiate
from a point behind his head ; and their outlines are
repeated and continued by the dog's and boy's backs.
And the boy, and the man, and the dog, and the per-
spective of the bridge, and all the lines to the right
(more strongly marked and darker towards the light),
and the slope of the hills, and all, direct the eye to
Windsor Castle, which is in the middle of the picture of
which the woodcut gives a part. It is the centre of the
picture, just as the bridge-tower is in Coblentz and
Ehrenbreitstein.

6-9. Laws of Contrast, Harmony, Consistency
or Interchange.

I am obliged to talk of these laws or principles
together, because I cannot separate them properly in
my own mind. You will find a perfectly good separate
account of them in the Elements, but it is rather
difficult, and could only be given verbatim in the words
of its author. It seems to me that Contrast and Har-
mony are like light and shadow, mutually producing,
suggesting and intensifying each other. Consistency is
delightful arrangement of masses in harmonious con-
trast : Interchange, delightful arrangement of contrasts
balanced against each other, as in the quarterings of a
shield, or where a lion in the middle of a black-and-
white shield is painted black on the white side and vice
versa. And contrast, like harmony, is in all things.
Work and rest, sound and silence, light and darkness —
these are all what we call correlatives, dependent on

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287

each other : skilfully and sweetly arranged successions
of them are harmonious ; violent and rough alternations
made anyhow are inharmonious. But besides this, all
colours have their opposites, which relieve them best ;
and lines more curved are opposed to lines less curved,
and massy forms to slight ones, and so on. And if you
will only observe and draw from Nature, you will learn
to know and understand the use of all these oppositions,
and have right judgment about them. But as to ac-
counting for them all, or even classifying them, it cannot
be done, and would spoil the whole interest of painting
if it could.

I should say that Contrast and Harmony were the
widest words of all these, as they express the relation of
all the others. Of the two, Harmony is the leading word
or idea, I think, because it has nearly the same meaning,
for all our practical purposes, as the word Unity which
we have stuck to throughout ; and because in so many
instances Harmony is best obtained by subdued con-
trasts ; that is to say, it arises from the sense of contrast
overcome. There is harmony in the soft mirage and
repose of a summer afternoon — because all the colours
of a landscape so seen are modified by light. So
there is in the sweep of a great rain-cloud, because
all the yellows and greens under it are toned off into
gray. That is harmony in softened contrast, and it
is a mystery, glory and danger of Art that a sense
of unity or harmony results from a violent thing's
being represented with calm beauty : or, in a measure,
from a wrong thing's being done right. And the great
relation of Art to Morality or Right greatly depends on
how and when artists think it right to represent the
wrong state of things. The right state of Nature is
calm, growth, clear colour ; the right state of a lady is

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

in dress becoming her beauty ; but it may possibly be
right, justifiable, better done than left undone, to repre-
sent her undressed ; and it is certainly quite right to
represent storm and tempest if you can. Now storm
scenes, and mountain scenery itself, involve the sense of
passion and vehement action as much as tragic scenes
or battle-pieces — with this advantage, that their expres-
sion of the same can never be ignoble, except by mere
incompetence. But likeness and consistency point to
repose, and depend greatly on the suggestions of con-
trast overcome. Cuyp's pictures, wherein it seemeth
always afternoon, derive their soothing and sleepy effect
from the spectator's unconscious feeling of how all the
colours of the objects are merged in light, and lapped in
gold. Contrast is there, but you don't see it and don't
want to, as you would in another man's work. The old
brewer overcomes you with animal feeling of soft bright-
ness and ease,-and absence of interest, and rumination, and
deafness to the call of time. And calm sea, or mountains
under still sunset-light, or great quiet masses of cloud, pro-
duce calm from contrast, because they make you think
of immeasurably great forces not at present in action.
The stillness of the valley of Zermatt carries with it an
undefined suggestion of the inconceivable action of
volcanic or watery forces by which it was formed ; and
the voice of the Vispach breaks it now and then, thun-
dering down from the glaciers, and protesting from far
below that he and they remain from the beginning and
go on for evermore — ordained of old, and not without
their terrors.

Well, for contrast in the Coblentz woodcut. The Ehren-
breitstein hill is a convex curve ; but at the bottom great
beds of rock strike across it from left to right almost at a
right angle, with a spiral leftwards again up the hill, which

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289

harmonises the two systems of lines, — the beauty of the
bridge is all contrast, a lot of perpendiculars, all various,
linked by one sweeping horizontal curve at top and an-
other below. The reflections and contrasts of colour in
the picture must be left to your imagination : but tower
and bridge are key-notes of contrast in line.

Of course the ablest men are most subtle in disguis-
ing their contrasts ; and violent contrasts, or glaring
contrasts not rightly led up to, are decided vulgarities,
and mark something third-rate in the perpetrator. But
any one who attends properly to gradation in light and
shade, and works faithfully by natural colour, will cer-
tainly be prevented from going far wrong in this matter.
In any contrast, were it even of sunset seen behind a
hill, there is only one high light, and only one darkest
tone, and each of them should be led up to on its
own side. Turner, I believe, almost always interposes
cloud, or softens the intense brightness of the sun behind
mountains*

You must read the Professor on all this ; only re-
member that when he says a great painter often permits
himself a certain carelessness of treatment, and is some-
times inferior to himself of set purpose, or by judgment, in
the course of his work, he is not addressing a Sketching
Club, but speaking of Tintoret or Turner. Such men do
make you feel the subtle contrasts of the play of their
own minds, by dwelling with greater care on one part than
another ; but if we try that game we are not likely to
do much good. But, if you can do one part of your
subject well and others not so well, you are right in doing
the latter slightly, or as well as you can up to a certain
point : and you may, if you can, disguise the fact that
you didn't know how to carry them farther. Still, avow-
ing it will do your picture no harm. What does do

290

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harm, is trying to finish it all over quite evenly, and
failing. Sternchase does this successfully; but to this day
none of us, who care most for him, know how far he is
in the right about it.

There is a capital example of an old tower, p. 300,
Elements, which shows how little contrast will suffice
for all due effect. There are five sloping battlements,
very solid and strong, with two old roofs between them,
slightly built, and collapsing in every variety of pretty

Fig. 36.

curve, varied by the tiles. But all depends on a large
ring which hangs against the inner wall, and contrasts
with all the perpendicular lines. By the way, that must
be why such emphasis is always laid on great rings in
walls of sea-ports, &c. — they contrast so with the square
lines of masonry, and up-and-down masts and rigging.
Then the flat inner sides of the battlements, which are
rather bald, are contrasted with the tiled edges of the
outer sides, which slope down like roofs ; and the fifth is
smaller and sharper than the others. Contrast, in fact,

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

291

in a great man's work, though it may be gentle enough,
never ceases in one form or another. And all the
laws of composition are obeyed by great men ; partly
because the great men unconsciously make the laws,
which are generalisations from their works ; partly be-
cause they obey laws by instinct several ways at once}
and are all right all round. 'There is as much differ-
ence in the way of intention and authority between
one of the great composers ruling his colours and a
common painter confused by them, as there is between
a general directing the march of an army, and an old
lady carried off her feet by a mob.'

Interchange or interpenetration, as we had before, is
only reversed contrast, as in heraldry, — blue passing to
the red side, and red to the blue, in a four-quartered
shield ; or smaller portions of either introduced alter-
nately. Prout dwells strongly on this principle ; and
you may learn it as he did, by looking faithfully at
nature. A tree-trunk looks dark against the sky, but
is light against dark as soon as it is backed by a hill :
in a hot climate the white walls are brighter than the
sky in the light, and ever so dark in shadow ; in short,
this seems to be Nature's favourite artifice, and you
will get it best from her. The main use of these pages
after all is to tell you how to look.

Then for consistency and harmony again : what is
called breadth in a picture is dependent on consistency ;
what we call spottiness in a picture is want of breadth,
or too equal opposition of its parts. Consistency is the
overcoming, or apparently dispensing with, contrast-
though, as I said, it often exists when it does not at
first present itself to the eye. Many compositions act
on the mind by aggregate force of colour or line, and
may be painted in various tones of red or gray or gold

U 2

292

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

almost exclusively ; with numerous slight contrasts, and
one impression of glow or coolness. Sunrise and sunset
effects are all in this way ; the same hue of colour being
the sustained keynote of the whole, with endless variety
or minor contrast, in gradation. You see the law of con-
trast and continuity very well in such a sky, when there
are groups or fields of cirri. Much of their beauty will
depend on the order or disciplined arrangement of their
forms, as they appear governed by the wind and their
perspective. When you have done the forms, colours, and
disposition of your field of cirri at all well, you have so
far forth given the best impression of consistency which
can be given. As to breadth, Nature is always broad ; and
if you never paint an effect you have not seen, and never
lose those effects you do see, your work will never want
for it. Of course drawings in progress often look spotty :
but if you work your picture out from Nature, it will
assuredly fall together, soon or late.

I think Charles has already told you a good deal
about single oppositions, and the great breadth which
results from proper contrast of every tone of one hue
with every tone of another. The French school practise
it very skilfully ; and it is the best thing you can learn
from them, as to colour. Of course I don't deny but
that they may be the best masters of academic drawing
also : though I can't say who they would set up against
Hermitage or Ponto. But they do know how to oppose
neutral tints : and in landscape they know no colour
beyond diluted grays. Poor M. Regnault ! what would
he have done if he had lived ? They haven't honoured
him too much ; for his death atoned for his disciple-
ship to Gustave Dore: and, if he painted in the gory
style, he gave his own blood in the day of distress ;
but he is best known in England because he shamed

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293

art and himself by doing thick streams of murder run-
ning down marble steps. The press and the public un-
derstand that. He might have been a French colourist,
and he proves that such a being is a possibility. But if
you are to try for breadth, that is to say, try to set
masses against masses in your pictures, it must not be
done by saying black is white, and painting everything
one colour, right or wrong. The thing is, to account for
it naturally. Gray clouds and yellow sands — pink mist
and gray sea or ice — green fields and gray fog — crimson
sunset and purple shadows ; — you may mass things under
those contrasts as you like for ever, but one of them is
enough for a picture, and should be enforced by subtle
repetition all over it, so as to reach Unity of Impression
at last.

As for Harmony, there are some more notes about
it to come, besides hints on finish. May is here, and
sends best love : she seems quite happy, but looks more
like Isis than ever, as I see her now, playing whist to
amuse Lady Susan ; and dealing all round, very like
Fate, with a sense of humour. Gravity certainly gains
on her, but she lets out now and then ; she was angry
about the Chanticleer abusing the Professor, and said
criticism was like measles, attacking books at an early
age : and she thought an anonymous writer must be very
like an isolated measle. Only just now, being asked
for her favourite hero in ancient history, she named
Remus, as 'an unobtrusive character.' And she said
she had always understood Pygmalion to be the sculptor
of the Florentine Boar.

I stay here a week. The Garrow is in fine condition,
and I'm to get all the salmon I can. A fourteen-pounder
to-day : it makes one happy. Wednesday week I take
May to town, where she will stay with her aunt, and

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abide, as she says, 'for a short Season — she can't stand
more than a fortnight of pleasure at a time, it is so
insufferable.' Then I am to fetch her for a week with
Gerty; and thereafter Charley's Major is to take her
back to Red Scaurs. Too bad of that stoopid boy
going off. But he is attentive in his way. I'm glad to
say May appeared this morning in a very good belt
from Venice, mounted in gold of some old design, with
a gibeciere, and hunting-knife conforming, bracelets and
collar and I don't know what ; just rich enough for
anywhere, and plain enough for any day. I wonder
if she cried over them ; her eyes were a little red,
but as bright and cool as the Garrow — and as deep as
its pools. She will never let herself be unhappy : but
at her age one wants joy. I hope if she ever has it, it
won't upset her too much. The parients are very well,
which I hope this finds you and Jack ; and so no more
at present, from yours truly to command.

R. I. P.

P.S. 'The Duchess's pluck seems to be more than
proportioned to her rank.' (This is from Charley's
letter from Constantinople, just read me by May). 'The
Mediterranean being altogether too hot, and Stamboul
not oriental enough, she has made up her mind for
Trebizond first, then Erzeroum and Etchmiadzin. Her
church views interest her beyond measure in Armenia ;
and she has ordered Holderness to go up Ararat, and
look out in earnest for any remains of the ark. Up we
go accordingly : I wish we could only have Devouassoud
or Aimer with us ; but it will be a very good business
I doubt not, and there must be some subjects. I wonder
if the long straight sheepskin coats they often wear here-
abouts are a traditionary remembrance of the fashion

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295

of Noah and his sons, as represented in our early days.
What more, I don't know, except that we are to join the
Anazeh Arabs somewhere on the Euphrates, cross
from Bagdad to Damascus, by Palmyra, and ride down
to Jerusalem ; all some time this side Christmas. I
must get home long before, at any rate/
I believe you, my boy.

P.P.S. Oh here's a game! That scamp Charley has
been taking notes about me and the young one. Just
read the enclosed memorandum and look at the scratched
sketch — not bad I must say. They seem to be a part
of some intended club letter, and you shall have them
just as he left them.

( I got a good example of instantaneous eye-impres-
sion this morning; I don't call it quite coup d^ceU^ be-
cause it is an involuntary picture on the eye as it were.
Going through Oxford the other day I stayed a night
at Ripon's ; and when I arrived he was out on Port
Meadow with Master W. I strolled down there and
waited on the racecourse, where it crosses a small ditch,
lately cleaned out, and a good jump for a pony. Pre-
sently I saw the black and the little chestnut come sailing
up the meadow, evidently meaning to have the ditch
near me. The little ones led ; but as they came at it,
Ripon (who was quite determined his son's pony should
not refuse, rushed past on the black and just flew the
place half a length a-head, so that they were in the
air together. The boy got over very well, and it gave
me a sort of instantaneous photograph on the brain, of
the little pony jumping all he knew, as ponies do jump,
with the boy's delighted look and good seat, — both
rising at their leap ; and the governor in the air on the
Black Monk, turning in his saddle to look at them,

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with his horse just in the act of landings fore legs
out and hind legs coming up to them. I think this
scratch has a little motion in it : and it is so difficult
to do anything that really looks like going. If any of
you can get a rapid impression of any interesting action
quickly done, and realise it at once or soon after in lines,
it will be admirable practice, and a great test of real
graphic power.

Fig. 37-

That instantaneous action of the mind by which
you know what you want to do, and therefore know
how you will have it, is a mystery to me, and so
I think it is to every one else. Ripon referred me
to the Professor, Modern Painters, vol. ii. p. 146, and
to Sir W. Hamilton's Lectures on Metaphysics, vol. ii.
p. 499 ; finally, with considerable impudence, to himself,
Contemporary Review, vol. vi. p. 384. Well, of course,
I wasn't going to look at the book, but I made him talk
it to me ; and he said on this wise, evidently quoting

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himself — in fact, I made him take the book down and
read it : ' You are contemplating some special matter,
and you get a new light given you on it, you do not
know how. When you ask the musician how the fresh
melody came to him, or the poet or painter how the new
idea broke on his mind as light, or swooped on him with
agitation, like a wild bird alighting — how do they an-
swer ? If they are wise they will say, " God knows how
I came by this. There was a train of thought ; or there
were many converging, and then a flash, an inspiration,
and I saw." The new thought really is a gift of reve-
lation to him who has it. Others may have had it
before, but in him it has found a new nidus^ and will
form a fresh thing or unity in him and out of him. What
is that image first of all projected on the mental retina,
to aid and realise which you call in your judgment, taste,
powers of composition, and so on? You have a vision
of something before you begin to compose, and a pur-
pose for combination before you combine. Can any-
body conceive of Orcagna beginning with a blank mind
and a white wall to select materials for his " Death" from
things in general? Or are we to suppose that Michael
Angelo compounded his Atropos out of a simple in-
duction of old women, without previous vision " within
his head"? Or look at his Eve, which many call the
loveliest form in art : or Fortune, on her wild wheel,
beautiful and passionless ; turning her eyes away as she
scatters crowns from one hand, and triple thorns from
the other — could she be pieced together out of a whole
hareem of contadinas ?

'No doubt, memory of composition spring at once
to help the new-born image into realisation. Sir Andrew
Aguecheek was adored once ; and we have most of us
had one idea or so in our time. Some may perhaps

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have had experience how a new notion sometimes
appears like a ghost, quite frightening the inexperienced
seer, and so returns to limbo only half questioned, and
with its tale half told. Indeed, we do not find that great
thoughts, or fresh bright intuitions, come to idle minds
or unstored memories. The great pain and conflict of
half-education in learning, is the struggle to realise an
apergu with insufficient knowledge. Happy indeed are
the well-prepared, who go to the cupboard of their me-
mory with better fortune than the late lamented Mrs.
Hubbard, who possessed a dog, or new notion, but was
unable to find him sustenance.'

Well, you see, I became possessed of a new unity ; a
new subject or motive for a picture, simply by way of
fortunate visual impression. I was much interested and
pleased, and very attentive ; I am accustomed to look
at things hard and sharply — and I saw all the simul-
taneous action of those four scampering animals. They
were thenceforth in that action still, as an image on my
brain. I drew it, first blocking the outlines out in small —
and it looked not without spirit ; then I went and looked
at the horses, and Rip gave me a photograph of the
black ; and I thought over the anatomy, and looked into
Aiken, and Leech, and Winter's Oxford Sketches for the
action, and that gave me all I wanted to finish the thing
as far as it goes. And it goes far enough to convey the
ideas of action and motion, with a certain emotion
about speed, equine excitement, boyish and paternal
pleasure, which is worth conveying — Q. E. F.

Enfin, good-bye, my dear Flora : all will be well,

R. R.

CHAPTER XIII.

Letter XXIL R. R. to F. L.

My Dear Flora:

It is not easy to leave off talking about
harmony and contrast — let us just notice the vulgarities
of both. Whether we all draw or not, we all look at
pictures, and may possibly get some lights on a very
necessary question in the Exhibition season — what not
to look at. Now we said that harmony results from
breadth of contrast ; so that if a picture illustrates one
opposition of colour in endless variety, it is so far forth
a good picture ; there is a broad contrast all over it,
and harmony of various tints in the same leading colours
all over it besides. Now harmonies may be false, and
contrast may be forced. And all students must remember
that they cannot be sure of truth in painting a picture
in single contrast of two colours, unless they have seen
such contrast in nature ; and that truth only can pre-
serve them from exaggeration, coarse contrast, false-
hood, call it what you will — from all which has the same
effect in a picture as talking very loud about one's own
doings has on the nerves of society. Therefore when
you see pictures which attempt broad contrast, ask them
first of all how far they were fairly observed and done

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from nature. A great deal must have been done at home
in most cases ; for two-colour effects are for the most
part due to particular lights, or states of the atmosphere,
or times of the day, sunrise and sunset, and they can't
always be painted entirely from nature. And don't be
bothered with symphonies and nocturns : that wicked
Mr. Whistler has made a number of men do things
calamitous and disastrous by inventing those titles.
What you ought to do in the symphony way is to
look for natural studies in one or two colours. You
may go as far as two oppositions, which makes four
colours.

I made notes last season — having been both North
and South — of some subjects of this kind. In a few of
them there is harmony with less contrast, and those are
the best examples. Just let me tell any of you who go
through Oxford to stay between trains, and see one of
the new East windows in the Cathedral by Morris and
Faulkner ; for it has the singular merit of possessing
the strongest contrast and the broadest harmony. The
mass of the thing is green in every possible shade and
play of hue, with a little artful contrast of particular
blues, whites and yellows in small quantities — so small
that you don't see them at first. Then, the whole thing
having a green effect, the aureoles round three tall white
saints' heads — there are three figures only — are the
purest and finest scarlet-crimson I ever saw : it really
is a red combining scarlet and crimson qualities, if there
can be such a thing. I like it best of all windows what-
ever.

But for studying this sort of thing, you may be able
to get at some of the undermentioned subjects, and
their contrasts are broad and easily understood, and will
mostly wait for you.

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301

Afternoon — sun lowish. Whitening barley against
cool gray-purple clouds and hills (rose-madder and
cobalt — the whitish yellow of the ' tender-bowed locks of
the corn,' yellow-ochre and white). Green in the laid
places and up the furrows where one sees the stalks. A
dark-green furzy foreground gave force, — if one wanted
more blue and purple, the Moray Firth was beyond to
the right ; and old Wyvis beyond that. That's too much
at a time ; but soon after I came on a succession of
natural exercises in colour, as the train ran through the
woods going towards Aberdeen ; like this —

First. — Greens. Scotch fir and gorse, .hardly any
flower — harmony.

If you want contrast, add the gorse-flower ; then
harmony will depend on your skill in imitating the real
relation of the yellow to the various greens ; in your
tone or evenness of light and shade ; and on your
catching the right quality of both hues : if you do the
latter you'll do the former.

Second. — Harmony. Scotch fir again, with young
autumn growth, sharp green against the sombre purple-
gray green. Then mossy floor of the forest, emerald
and gamboge; dead (pine-needles) light red for contrast.
Or better, omit that last, and dwell on the dark red-
purple stems (violet carmine with light red).

Contrast (second power). Add chrome for sunshine
on the mossy green.

For third power of colour, add to this the purple
bell-heather. And finally, if you want a blaze, dwell on
the red fir-trunks; so as to have dark-green and red
above, and the heather-purple and green below.

Or again ; try a close foreground-contrast : a red
agaric under ferns.-

Or a red-and-yellow squirrel on Scottish fir, or larch

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boughs : add a rowan-berry in his mouth for second
power of contrast.

Or red deer among green trees, grass and ferns.

Or perhaps best of all, an orange-and-green subject,
which you may call ' Red comes the river down.' A
stream in full spate from the moors — over sandstone and
whinstone soil — all orange-vermilion and rich brown,
and from that to white. Opposed by green leaves and
ferns, and harmonised by gray rocks, very dark in their
recesses. General effect of red, yellow and white op-
posed to all shades of black and green. By black, of
course, I mean dark purple and gray.

Then finally and for the last time, there is a harmony
of passion and feeling and consistent train of thought,
which is the highest of all : — when you can put such
parts or details into your pictures as shall set the mind
of the spectator at work, and make him walk up your
hills and sit down by your rivers, and think about them
and the people who live by them. You cannot sit down
and compose this sort of harmony : you may see it ;
and all higher success depends on never missing such
opportunities as will assuredly come to you. In learning
the technique and processes of landscape-painting you
have no business with ideas and feelings, because they
distract your attention from technique. But when you
have learnt that up to a certain standard, you have
learnt a language up to that standard ; and the real
result of your whole work will depend on what you have
to say in it. And what you have to say will depend on
what sort of person you are, and what things you really
like. For the sketching season, when you are working
from nature, you are always safe in painting what
you like, supposing you to have learnt enough of the
technique to know when it is impotent, in the face of

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303

some great subject. I know it is very silly for young
people to want to draw panoramas of Chamonix, or
avalanches and inundations, when they can't really do
jam-pots : but when you have once learnt to do any-
thing well, you will have learnt to measure your powers,
and will not be so eager to attempt what is beyond
them.

[These are some final notes of Charles's on Finish and
Harmony. They are not very carefully expressed, but
it seems as if he saw his own meaning pretty well, and
I think the Club may get something from them. How
the Oxford grind comes out, in his taste for distinctions,
and arrangement of notions. Only think, if he had used
his opportunities, and not gone off after Art and all that
bosh, he might have got his First, and been a Fellow of
St. Vitus, and a second-rate coach, or a sub-professor, or
a school-inspector, and have written for the Chanticleer
or the Scholasticus, and so arrived at wealth and fame.
Now il 11 est rien> pas mhne academicien. How very
sad !]

R. R.

There seems to be a point where finish and harmony
— the processes and the quality which we call by those
names — run into each other. Towards the end of every
picture or study, your object is not only that it shall be
like — that you ought to have secured ; but you want at
last to get the thing into harmony ; to prevent its shock-
ing anybody by inequality of tone — i. e. to get all the
features of your work into their proper planes, or relative
distances from each other, by means of right pitch of

304 OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

force in light and shade, and also by good perspective.
You haven't finished anything, and it is inharmonious,
until you have corrected mistakes in these two things.

With this preface, I should say Finish was of two
kinds :

One is finish in the sense of adding facts, natural or
sentimental. They must be congruous and harmonious,
of course ; or you either spoil the thing, or make a
grotesque.

The other is finish technical, for the sake of com-
pleting processes of imitation ; or of emphasising the
effect of your work ; or, as in so much of Sternchase's
work, on account of the Workman's Honour. It is for
your honour <as a painter that the spectator be not dis-
tracted by any imperfections in your painter's language
of form and colour. In finishing a novel or story I sup-
pose finish of both these kinds must come in. You put
in small details for the sake of realisation, and if you
are good at it, you put in significant ones to pile up
the agony. And therein and throughout you have to be
very careful of your style and grammar, because if you
fail in that you fall straightway into the Bathos. So it
is with grammar of form and colour. Our last practical
question then concerns the choice of details to put in, or
to leave out, supposing you are strong enough to do the
former. If a competent painter could really put in every-
thing, or all he sees ; if things could be painted as they
are, or if they would stop to be painted, — everybody would
be bound to paint everything, and even finish would
be required all along the line. Sternchase approaches
this nearer than anybody : but certainly what he does
cannot be expected from many persons ; perhaps not
from anybody except himself.

This is one question then towards the end of a thing

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305

- — What shall I work out to my uttermost, what shall
I suggest only, what shall I skip ? and we all acknow-
ledge that skipping is a confession of weakness which
we must all make. Or rather ; it is confessing our frailty
when we leave a thing out when it ought to be there,
because we can't do it ; and it is exposing frailty when
we try to work a detail out and do it ill, or much worse
than the rest. The first makes harmony incomplete,
leaving out a note ; the second destroys it, introducing
discord.

Therefore, never put in anything which is not there, to
display finish. One consequence of the technical and
manual teaching of the Art-Schools — good as it often is
— is that people choose subjects so dully and joylessly,
only to display, and get paid for, their manual skill. You
can't help it, they will do it ; it is the consequence of the
competitive system : and while people in this country are
in that state that they won't draw at all except for
the purpose of getting medals, it cannot be helped.
Another generation may look higher ; meanwhile you
can't wish them to leave off work. But the habit of
wanting to show how cleverly you can stipple and hatch,
and make things look downy and bloomy and peachy
and fluffy and so on, is likely to spoil your landscape ;
because it will keep you always looking for downy and
fluffy things to do, instead of enjoying beautiful ones :
you will give yourselves to imitation rather than to Art.
Accordingly we have fruit and flowers and still life
from the schools, done in a respectable mechanical way
with the Kensington touch, as they used to call it ; and
people buy pictures of peaches and grapes because they
like them to eat. But there is not anybody very like
Turner, who c took as much pleasure in a Swiss valley,
piled up with the debris of a torrent, as William Hunt

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would have taken in drawing peaches and plums, or as
another person in a whole valley full of peaches and
plums.' Therefore, except for practice, and in the way
of learning processes of Art, do not choose flowers or
still life in order to show how you can stipple, or unless
you are really fond of the flowers or other articles. And
when you are flower-painting, keep your hatching and
stippling to imitate Nature's.

I have been doing a primrose, flower and leaf; and
also some cherry blossoms and young leaves against a
red-brick wall. Well, when I had got on the first coat
of yellow in the former (lemon-yellow and a little white,
and gamboge centre), I saw that each petal had ribs,
and a distinct and very gracefully modelled form of its
own, with various curves of surface and broad shadows
accordingly, and high lights. I did two of them care-
fully, and the calyx — I think that's what you call the
little hole in the middle — leaving the rest rough, that
you may all see the processes. It took me two hours,
and when it was done, the finished part looked finished.
But every touch I put on was imitative of something
I saw in the flower, or was a part of its imitation ; and
I think that is the right way to finish, or to learn finish,
which is what you all ask for. So with the white of the
cherry blossoms, and green of the leaves : you have your
faint rose and cobalt shade, with a little yellow in it ;
but to put it on right you must observe the forms of the
ribs of the petals, which are the most solid white, and
put on the delicate shade in the spaces between the ribs
of the petal. As far as you show your skill in fair
following of Nature, you are all right : but when you
begin to paint ideally bloomy and smalty-blue grapes
for the sake of advertising the hours of stipple you put
into them — why that's not what I want you to do. I

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307

believe some of the regular medal-hunters in our art-
schools spend months and months of life and eyesight
in elaborately stippled representations of the human
skeleton — not knowing the names of the bones, or having
forgotten them ; and when half the time spent in char-
coal drawing would have given them a fair -knowledge
of all the anatomy an artist ever can need. You will
see that trying to call attention to one's own skill in
finishing processes is inharmonious ; because it's bad
taste. As an artist, you want to say, What a beautiful
thing this is I have tried to draw : as a technical finisher
you say, What a clever person I am, and how well
taught. Like the eminent boy in the corner, who made
an observation to the same effect, you may obtain pos-
session of plums that way ; but you won't be one of the
real Workmen and Customers. I do not know whether
Art is religious or not, the sense popularly attached
to both words is so uncertain ; but Art is so far like
Religion, in the personal sense of religious aspiration,
that it for ever keeps your attention and affections on
something which is not yourself, and which is beautiful.

So that we may drop technical finish here. It is to
be learned by drawing from Nature, a few well-defined
things at a time. You begin to learn it with the jam-
pot, when you begin to learn to draw; and if you have
patience to learn the processes properly, such as you
have had to go through so far, why you will have skill
to use them in different ways, up to the end of all your
pictures. But as to your choice where to put out your
strength, where to leave out, as well as where to work
things out — your choice in that matter will after all
depend on what sort of person you are, or on what sort
of persons you are painting for. Only if you paint
wrongly or do things shadily, in order to please people

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you know to be wrong, why I think decidedly you are
doing wrong — as wrongly as if you deceived them or let
them deceive themselves. Sermuchser, as Mr. Toodle
says, that I had rather you did'nt draw at all, or did
merely nugatory things, or differed from me honestly
and altogether about what is right, than that you should
do anything falsely or badly to please anybody, or get
anything.

And as to the true harmony of finish, which is arrived
at by adding the right facts in the right place, and the most
harmoniously suggestive facts in the best place, I go back
to the old Law of Principality, of sticking to the character,
or main point, or leading idea, throughout. Want of
skill is inharmonious, and all our best skill falls short.
The most skilful man's work must be unevenly finished,
yet it will be full of harmony. He has his main point,
and paints up to that with all his might, by the Law of
Principality. And he makes that your main point of
view. You are to begin with his picture there, and all
your thoughts about it are to come round thither, and
all its lines and curves will bring you back to the main
point. What it may be, is his affair. It may be the
centre of his system of colour, or the centre of his system
of curvature, or the centre of his thoughts and feelings
about his subject : but he will bring you back to it, and
start you again from it. Go where you will in Turner's
Rizpah, the flame of her torch is the central light ;
and it glares for ever on the fleshless ribs of her dead
sons, and on the points of the little coronet, cast into
dust, of her who once was loved of Saul.

Now I really think, if you have enough of the spirit
of the thing in you — and the harder you work, assuredly
the more of it you will have — you will be able so to set
your heart on the main thing in a subject, as never to

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3°9

forget it in realising all the minor parts which make up
the whole picture or narrative about the thing. If you
remember it rightly, you cannot go wrong. That's your
unity, harmony, and what not : as you work, you will learn
to keep that first ; or, which is strictly the same thing,
to keep other matters secondary. If anything distracts
you from that, it will also distract your spectator ; where-
fore leave it out, or do not 'finish,' or dwell on it, so
much. Care in realisation in our art, is the same thing
as emphasis in speech. If any kind of technical treat-
ment makes that main point or centre of unity more
attractive to your eye, or conveys the impression of it
more keenly or deeply — try it faithfully on the eye and
mind of the public, conventionally supposing the poor
old cuss to have got one, as his newspapers tell him
he has. He and I are not exactly unknown to each
other, and it is by no means easy to say which has the
humbler opinion of the other. But he is not altogether
foolish, or not invariably so at all events.

I know you will have endless trouble about ways and
methods all your student-days, that is to say, all your
life. You will get all the interest of your picture into
your chief light very possibly ; and then you will want
to put everything else back, or take everything else
down. And now, don't try to do it by sponging every-
thing half out, or by coating everything over with gray.
Try and honestly take down the effect of things which
interfere with your chief interest ; darkening them away
from notice, but always by small patches of varied
colour, one by one ; and when your leading feature
is well in front, let the other parts come out also,
in right relation. This will be easier on the systems
of chiaroscuro I have always commended, that is to
say, on Veronese's or Turner's. Where the general tone

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is kept light for the sake of colour, you will always
have more degrees of shade or force to fall back upon,
and can tell people details by the slightest variations
of tone. It is a great thing, that power of giving thrilling
whispers, and it can be done in pictures with wonderful
effect, by putting in details at either end of the scale ;
most powerfully, perhaps, in the darker masses. But still
every shadow should be unforced and natural, and also
it should and must be colour ; so that a cormorant
against your darkest cloud shall be a recognisable black
shag, to all intents and purposes — a speck of opaque
local darkness, not aerial darkness.

There is a habit which all eager willing people fall into,
that of painting too near the eye, especially, of course, in
copying. Still-life studies require very acute sight, and
hard looking ; so that you will be led towards this : and
you must avoid or counteract it as well as you can. Re-
member that your picture will be looked at three feet
from the eye at the very least ; and when you are trying
to get in a feature, keep well back from your work while
you are thinking what to do, or how it looks ; though you
may have to bring your eye very near in actually putting
on fine touches. Painting on a large scale now and
then will be the best practice on this line. I think I
learnt a great deal, quite enough to reward me for labour
against the grain, in doing a kind of panorama of our
Sinai expedition, to illustrate lectures to my schools.
How I hated the job ! but it was right to do it, and it
came useful — generally all round.

R. R.

• •••••

P.S. It has almost left off raining, and the Garrow
will fish to-morrow. May is going to finish an open-air

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drawing she began the other day at Ravensgill Towers ;
and Wharfedale is such a trump, he has asked us — on her
account I suspect, or more properly, on Miss Crakan-
thorpe's — to have a regular salmonicide day, with the
Clint Pool, and Razor-Brigg Cast, and all the river our
own below the Master's Leap. I wanted her to take
to salmon-fishing ; and she learned to cast directly,
and got two nice fish ; but now she says, a little fox-
hunting now and then is enough for her in the way of
killing things. She keeps the house very pleasant here,
and we have a great many more visitors than usual — to
see her, in fact. But she is hopelessly grave and agree-
able—except now and then, as about the anonymous
measle ; or on croquet, which she has just characterised
as ' the last infirmity of ignoble minds.'

Goodbye, my dear Floy ; it is so funny to hear you
talk about getting old ; I'm sure that sort of thing has
a formidable sound to me, at nearly twice your age. But
then we can't possibly grow younger, at least in years ;
and now, lo it is summer, almighty summer — as it was
before our day, and will be after us for many days, all
by the waters of Gore and Garrow. Only let's be
thankful to see it once more, while better waits, and
be glad to live our lives as we have them, here in the
north country. There be many that say, who will show
us anything so good ?

Life is come back to the revelling hills,

Their forests wave like hands upthrown ;
There is babbling mirth of a thousand rills,

There is faint fresh life in the lichen'd stone,
Much He hath left, if more He hath reft,

I am strong to think of the past and gone.

And, by the way, though I've no notion of scolding
a singularly good-looking and vivacious person of

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twenty-five years of age for writing me some pensive
gammon about feeling old, — there is this about the pur-
suit of naturalist landscape, that it will keep you young
while you can practise it. For the painter-state of mind,
like all other true imaginative operations of the soul, is
permanent and ever new, and a fountain of youth, and
an intimation of immortality. Come what will, while
your eyes and hands are spared they will raise your
spirit right away from world's troubles when you use
them. And if only your eyes, or any senses at all were
left you, you would still be able to get hope and delight
from summer and green leaves — as Borrow's gipsy said,
1 Even in blindness, brother, there's the wind on the
heath.' And it seems to me that sympathy with the
life and change of natural things is the fundamental
and primordial enjoyment, a relic of the old garden or
sinless state, before the curse on the world ; and I
think it is meant to comfort everybody who will accept
comfort from it. I can't help it if men make so little
of it — like the Professor, I don't wonder so much at
what they suffer as at what they lose. We — our set
I mean — are a pretty strong lot of rather countrified
Christians with various semi-artistic tastes that direct
us a good deal ; and we keep each other in counte-
nance pretty well. But people don't think much of
us, and our taste for art and nature is only con-
doned. There's no doubt both you and May might
see much more of the world, and enjoy London seasons,
and make a considerable impression, &c, if you cared
to work harder at that form of enjoyment, and less
at home, and country work and pleasures ; and people
would think you wiser. For aught I see, three weeks of
racketing, and late spring by the Serpentine instead of
the Garrow, will be enough to satisfy you. But there

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

313

are a great many of both sexes — I don't mean dissipated
hacks, but good and useful people, who conscientiously
think Charles and the rest of you are wasting life in
a ' perhaps harmless ' way, without real business or plea-
sure ; and that the official, or forensic, or competitive, or
speculative, or dinner-and-ball life are the only lives.
Well, Time tries all, and there is another and final trial.
But, for sustained enjoyment of intellectual life, land-
scape (by which I now mean, careful regard of all the
outer shows of inanimate nature) is a very enduring
and supporting thing indeed ; and it is a very powerful
source of this intellectual life, and, in a certain sense,
of inspiration also. It never seems to fail ; it never
can, while summer is leavy, while sunrise and sunset go
on, and the whole world, towns and all, continues to be
taken with beauty and solemnity every twelve hours ; —
never, while light is lightsome, or darkness is deep. And
the older you get, — I've seen it in others, and I know it
by myself, — the more pleasure spring growth and fresh
earth-life give you. This is not a sermon, I keep saying ;
but still it's true that if you invest a certain amount of
time and pains, in that which was from the beginning
appointed for you to enjoy, said investment is not wasted,
but lasts longer than another. And it is cheap and
handy, and does not stand in the way of rougher work.
And in the same way with men who live by painting,
— to the majority of them, landscape is the only un-
failing source of motive and inspiration. To all except
the greatest, other wells run dry, or they can draw no
more from the deep waters. Phoebus lives on in his
grand allegories, and Hermitage and Charley in the Old
Testament, and Baldwyn and Ponto get some fresh life
out of Homer and Sophocles ; but most men who have
tried to follow them die away into self-repetition : all

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

the Arthurian school is mere echo of the Laureate, and
De Vair or Brownjones.

For a time, men work faithfully as their imagination
leads them, they have trained their hands and eyes, they
have stored their minds, and genuine subjects and true
ideas come to them, longing for realisation, and praying
to be painted. Well, in most men, sooner or later that
ends in self-repetition. They want money, and can't wait
for the next great motive, or take time to work it out, or
get anything for it when it is worked out : people will
only pay them to do what they have done before. Per-
haps, as they get on in middle life, they lose spirit and
life, and their imaginations don't go as they used ; or
their first success may be their greatest, and they feel
they can get no more or do no more than they have
done. I think Tingrind feels that, after his early
triumphs, and he is perhaps the best example of all —
for he alone, having done such considerable things in
"the ideal, and made such pots of money by portrait,
has the sense to go to pure landscape, and try the
Wordsworthian view of actual things, with that strength
of his that never fails ; and the study will never fail
him. Of course it is highest, or I cannot say but that
it may be highest, to have a succession of historic or
classical visions of the brain, and to paint them out
until one dies, never failing. But as that is beyond
the greatest of us, men are simply right in resting on
the fresh and genuine impressions of sight which they
can always find in realist landscape. And it un-
doubtedly renews the outworked imagination. The
more real you make it, the more ideal it is, in this true
sense ; that the more thoroughly you work out a land-
scape, the better you convey and impress your idea
of it. And, generally speaking, if you are at all a

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315

great, or profound, or rightly-passionate person, your
idea of your realised subject will be felt to be ideal ;
for by the word Ideal people really mean to themselves
great, profound, and passionate. The word never means
unreal in any sense whatever.

Therefore, dear Floy, though I've often said it before to
May and you — believe in your own soul, and in Art as a
thing good for your soul. It is not Best, but it is good ;
it is not identical with Faith or Love, but it goes un-
commonly well with either or both of them. It is one
of the very best of the appointed labours of the days
of our vanity ; and in all human probability it involves
actual types and symbolisms of great realities, and has
an inward teaching of its own, concerning real things,
which are, and shall be to us, when we have left the
vain things. Now, as in a glass darkly, then, face to face.
Certain reflections of Beauty we do get ; we do see them,
from time to time, and for awhile; and if we, or our
sight, or our life and spirit, be anything and not nothing,
there is a Beauty and source of all beauty, behind, some-
where. And of That — as we Christians say, of Him—
we are promised the Beatific Vision.

R. R.

CHAPTER XIV.

RED SCAURS was, or is, a more out-of-the-way
house than Hawkstone, at about sixty miles'
distance. It was more distinctively North-country; in
the region where men never describe their place of
abode by ordinary directions known to the postal service,
but tell you they live in Craven, or Cleveland, or Holder-
ness, or some kind of Dale. It is the same way in
the West Highlands, where the people's nomenclature
is still

Knoydart, Croydart, Moydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchau.

It is a way they have in those parts ; I daresay there is
a dash of affectation in it ; but still they are fond of the
old names ; and no Cawthorne ever made the remotest
allusion to a post town in giving his direction, but said
he lived in Garradale. The old house stood just below
its own moors, let us say somewhere in Richmond or
Craven. It was a sort of quadrangle, with flanking
turrets, useful as dressing-rooms or gun-rooms ; the
woods all round were very fine and picturesque, — woods
on a hill always are much more so than on a plain,
because one sees so much more of the individual forms
of the trees as they rise one above another. They
very effectually shielded Lady Susan Cawthorne's well-
known gardens from the wild winds of the moors. Her
taste, and a special kindness in always having village

OUR SKETCHING CLUB. 317

fetes and that sort of thing in among her roses, had
made her horticulture famous in the land. She had a
good eye for landscape-gardening, and had been wont
to direct her husband's planting and felling in the
pleasure-grounds with great success. But he now seldom
left the house, and had long given the wood -ranging
department up to old Tom and Charles, dutiful sons
both, who still pushed Lady Susan about in a wheel-
chair with the energy of Cleobis and Biton ; clad in
rough garments and wielding great axes at her bidding,
like one file of the Varangian Guard on service.

* O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish far better in the north country.'

They certainly did very well in Cawthorne Brake, and
Raygill Fall, and Skreiks Wood, and all the many
covers along the Scaurs. It was a romantic rocky over-
wooded old place : just the sort of house where little
squireens or squiresses might be supposed to wander out
of the nursery into the garden, and out of the garden
into the pleasure-ground, and out of the pleasure-ground
into the wilderness, and out of the wilderness into the
woods, and out of the woods up on to the moors, and
never to be heard of any more. There was a small dark
mere (mere is a Shropshire word, and tarn is the right one,
but the former is too pretty to be resisted), it was full of
large perch, and for ever reflecting immense beeches,
and seldom stirred by any wind. You followed a rough
track up Skreiks Gill above, or scrambled from stone to
stone in the beck. Green of summer leaves, and brighter
green of moss, hart's-tongue, and lady-fern — great boulders,
red, purple, and gray, sweet waters running softly (or
quite the contrary according to weather) — pink-purple
heather bursting out all round — and a vision of the

3i8

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

glowing moors above and beyond ; birch and mountain-
ash taking the place of larger trees, as one rose to the
moorland level ; ousels poking their noses into little
holes like school inspectors ; great store of titmice ; many
wrens cocking their little stiff tails and winking at one,
as those little things always do, with a private-inquiry
air of ability to put one up to something one didn't
know before ; — the largest number of the smallest birds ;
ditto trout, and perhaps, now and then, signs of an otter
or a badger ; all these phenomena generally put one
into a dreamy half-observant state of mind suitable to
woodland and moorland walks, until one stumbled over a
knoll in the heather above into a covey of grouse, to
mutual consternation ; and after that of course one began
to think about the 12th, and one's meditations were
rather vulgarised.

The lower side of the house commanded a view of
two or three of the best salmon-casts in the upper
waters of the Garrow, which ran through the large wild
park — more a chase than a park, in fact — where the
deer had to be regularly stalked, and where deep
heather, broad oaks, and massive boulders of gritstone
made delightfully sylvan scenery, exactly the thing for
Rosalind and Celia. There was an ancient hunting-
lodge in the hills, which a lord of the land in times past
had built for his last days, when he could hunt no more,
' to hear the hartes bell.' As you looked from the high
moors the view was wide and wild, but had not the spell
of loneliness felt in the Scottish Highlands ; it had its
softer English charm of sweeping the eye far away in a
broad blue line of partly-inhabited distance, over tower
and town half seen or unseen ; though the keepers and
watchers always worried you to persuade yourself that
you could make out York Minster from some point not

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

319

specified, under certain conditions of atmosphere which
never were fulfilled. The said officials were all original
characters. Everybody is one in a Yorkshire dale ; but the
compass of this work hardly allows me to introduce the
reader to any of them excepting Bob Jagger the forester,
who was generally reputed to be somewhere about Lord
of the Scaurs without doors, when the young gentlemen
weren't at home. He now sat behind in the waggon-
nette, which Ripon was driving across the moor-road to
Ravensgill Towers, about seven miles off, on a lower
reach of the Garrow. May was by the Vicar's side, at
first silent and rather abstracted, with a patient look
which touched him; but the fresh morning and early
summer soon raised her spirits, and she chatted away
delightedly about her school-work, and Sister Catherine,
and pictures, and church decoration — and that brought
them to Charley of course. But they turned to Bob
instead of discussing him, and began on the weather
in its relation to salmon.

' Well, happen it 'd be ta bright, but there 'd be na
fault to find with t'watter. We'd begin with a small
butcher1, or tJ red with gold ribs and mallard's wing, and
keep yon black and yellow, the Lochow fly, for the sun-
blink.5 Jagger's language was peculiar — he had lost
his natural Coomberland in the course of a fair school-
education ; then he had long been boy, gillie, keeper
and forester at Tombuie, and acquired much Highland-
English and some Gaelic ; and now he had lived many
years in intellectual contact with the Cawthornes, who
delighted in talking the most inveterate South-West
Riding to each other and their own people ; so that in

1 A darkish artificial fly, in which silver-twist and gold-pheasant
are leading features.

3 20

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

moments of excitement he was very broad indeed. He
was a man of great strength and humour, quiet with
man and dog — but his rate and whip were severe on
occasion ; and since his affair with Blazes Pharaoh the
big gipsy, whom he had rendered unfit for use for several
weeks, and indeed almost entirely spoiled, nobody had
wanted to test his manhood.

They rattled across the moor, all striped and speckled
with green mosses and dark heather and springing turf.
Four or five miles of white road at a fast trot ; then
canny with the young horses down a steepish zigzagged
descent ; then round a shoulder of the hanging woods
into fields and gardens sloping away above the river ;
with Ravensgill Towers ' guarding well their lands.'

Wharfedale came forth with great welcome to both,
and May gave a demure and highly favourable account
of the sanitary and moral condition of Gerty Crack,
dwelling on the subject to his undisguised satisfaction.
She must go and talk to his mother; they had put
up a small tent at her old sketching-point, but if it
came on too rough or changeable she had better come
and fish with him and the Reverend — there would be a
light rod out — and so forth. So May went into Lady
Wharfedale's sanctum to give account of old friends at
the Scaurs, and her son and his henchman went off to a
higher cast.

' We '11 wait for yon cloud,' sad Bob, after trying all
Ripon's knots, and seen that his fly played nicely hook
downwards against the stream. ' Ai 'm thinking y 're
gotten neater with y 'r fingers, by the look of yon knots/
and he began to fill his pipe with twist. The Vicar made
a cast or two high up, to get out a nice length of wetted
line. There are salmon-pools and salmon-pools ; and
we have just time to describe this one, called Razor-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

321

Brigg Cast, from a little iron-wire bridge which crossed
the river just above, and which was rather unsuited for
nervous passengers. Just now, with the Garrow clearing
itself after full spate, at the true porter-colour, the cast
was a great roaring pool, swinging violently over to the
left bank of the river in a vast cup or bowl of polished
rock on that side. A long rapid above led to the
narrow den called the Earl's or Master's Leap ; from
some Bolton-Abbey-like tradition of the house. There
the gritstone cliffs nearly met over the stream, usually
black, and oily, and snakelike, now writhing and twist-
ing pale and furious, like a half-strangled prisoner.
There was a pretty fall where the river widened, then
the rapid, a small pool near the bridge, an angle of the
river, and a great rush into the larger pool. Rip got his
line well out above, and as the cloud -shadow came
marching up the glen, treading out the sparkle of its
rain-drops, he sent his fly straight across into the foam
on the farther side, instantly turning the point of his rod
up stream, and working it across.

'Not bad — don't work it too fast, t' stream does it.'
The fly floats in — swish-hwish, it darts across again,
lighting four feet lower, — again — again — again— they
are getting towards the best of the pool. ' Eigh, theer,'
says Bob J agger, sotto voce, as a three-pound sea-trout
rises and is fast hooked in a second. The eighteen-foot
rod, strong gut and large fly make short work ; he is
scarcely allowed a run, but is held mercilessly away
from the yet undisturbed water. He jumps and springs
and does his best, but is soon within range of the net,
and duly scooped up ; he will make a rare fry, but he is
not quite the thing desired here and at present.

' Canny a bit, sir, an' begin again near t' head t' pool.
Ye're fishin' well the day, whatever. An' if he cooms,

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

don't be too hard on him at first ; ye know what Mr.
Thomas says — first give line, then let him take it if he
likes, then if he caan, then wind him oop.'

Swish-hwish — cast after cast of the long line — they
are reaching the tail of the pool, and the Vicar is stand-
ing as deep as his waterproofs allow — he draws in his
line suddenly. ' Nah, man, did ye feel him — ye' re sure
he missed ye1?'

' Never felt him the least, only saw there was some-
thing. What 's he like, Bob ? '

'Ar's a varra big one — quite white and fresh-roon
from t' sea — ar turned oop a saide like a pig in t' watter,
and ar made a swirl laike oopset'n a barra,' said Bob,
excited, and getting stronger in his South-Yorkshire.

'We'll give him five minutes to consider, and put on a
size smaller mallard-wing,' quoth the Vicar, producing
the lure in question from his hat. Five minutes of quiet
fumigation — then a few casts above, and the fly is ' put
down ' to the salmon with much precision, by Ripon's
steady hand. At the third throw the line stops, Rip
strikes sharply, lets the silk run lightly from the wheel,
and flounders quickly on shore. cEh, man, shoulder
t' rod,' — back he puts it, and moves gently upward ; for
the big fish, as salmon often do when hooked at the tail
of a pool, is pushing on into deeper water higher up, not
having quite realised the situation yet. He moves in
under their feet ; the angler winds up a little, tightens
his line for a moment, so as to ' feel the mouth ' of his
prey, and gives the butt of his rod one quick blow,
lowering the point at once, just in time for — O Levia-
than— what a rush ! . . .

1 A fish who has missed the fly will come to it again, but if touched
or pricked he leaves it.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

323

' Give 'n t' rod, sir, and roon with him.'

Away cuts the Vicar, best pace, varus distortis cruribus^
with the water streaming out of his fishing stockings.
Salmo is down the long pool like winking — 'Keep
oop t' point t' rod, sir!' — will he turn at the end? not
he, by Behemoth — he rushes along a hundred yards
of rapid, and then rolls like a portmanteau over a fall
into the next pool, a large, partly artificial one. Ripon
breathes hard, as well he may ; his reel is thin, and
there's a terrible length of line all across the river.
' Keep t' point oop, sir, and give him t' boott (butt), he's
cooming over to yah again.' The line stops and Rip
winds up fast and fast— fish rushes again to the further
corner of the pool, darts up stream and springs, once,
twice, three times. Canny and quick the point of the
rod is lowered to him, and he cannot get a dead pull on
the steel — but, ye gods and anything but little fishes,
what a stunner !

'Ah, man, is he on yet?'

' Not a doubt of it, Bob ; get to the mouth of the pool,
and heave stones to stop him, if he tries down stream
again.'

' Nah, but ar 's had it hot, and ye may give him t' boott
harder. Ar doobles up t' rod well, whatever ; let 'n roon
a bit, t' goott 's nobbut single ; that 's raight, mak' him
bend t'rod, that far. Hoo many minutes? twenty ar
think — ah th'n, coom out t' that.' Two or three big
stones fly with precision and awful splashes at the mouth
of the pool to stop Salmo's downward course, and the
disgusted fish turns up stream once more, and again
shoots into the air, short and thick, and all brilliant-
white, like a star in daylight. He is hooked deadly-fast
in the cartilages of his jaw, and fights in a way which
shows he feels little pain, except from wrath and fear.

Y 2

324

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

One rush after another ; Ripon grinds his teeth and falls
dead silent as he runs hither and thither, always keeping
opposite his fish. Ten minutes more, the line is gathered
slowly on the clicking wheel of fate ; once more the fish
tries for the lower rapid, but this time he has to drag
every yard of line out against the rod, and at the low end
of the pool — O delight — he fairly 'turns over' for the
first time.

' Nah waind oop, sir, and read t' riot act.'

His pluck remains, but he is fat and scant of breath ;
he fights on vaguely, but is led almost to the beach of
round stones, just visible in the wild river, on which Rip
has made up his mind to land him. He sees his foes,
and darts away again ; again he wearies, and is drawn
back — nah hoorry, sir, let'n roon again — once more he is
towed in — he is half aground on the stones — there is
no more in him. Mind the line, Bob. The gaff-hook
is passed over the salmon's back, and the next moment
he is fixed behind the gills, and swung from the water,
bending the tough pole almost double. Bob throws
himself on the damp but not unpleasant body, and won't
get off: the Vicar lays down his rod and wipes his
streaming face and beard. The whole morning and
scene somehow looks different after such a set-to ; and,
indeed, killing a good fish really modifies one's whole
existence for ever so long.

'Arl's well that ends well,' said J agger: — 'but it's
arkward yon, hookin' a fish at tail t'pool, there's sa
mooch line out. An ar think ye fish with raither ta long
laine, Mr. Ripon ; ar'm not so sure, but gentlemen varra
often think they owt t' have as mooch oot as iver they
can cast.'

' No, no, Bob ; I always keep as short as I can ; but
it was a long throw to where he took it : luckily a fish

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

325

of that weight almost hooks himself. Over twenty
pounds, I'm sure.'

' Joost go over top 't' pool again ; then we'll go oop to
t' Clint, Miss Langdale's drawing thereby.' The sky
was rather too bright, and they tried 'butcher' and
'black dragon' without success. Nothing moved ex-
cept a dark-looking fish of no great size, which must
have been some time in the river, and had, probably,
as Bob said, ' been that floggat over, and threshat over,
that he's sick at a flee/

Half-a-mile by the lovely river brought them close to
May's sketching-point, the Clint pool, long reported the
best in the water. A small tent had been placed there
for her, but the light kept changing sadly, and with in-
creasing brightness ; and they found her a good deal
occupied in cultivating the acquaintance of the smallest
wren that ever was seen, or rather, was nearly invisible.
' He's not much bigger than a cockchafer,' she said, 'and
he's so anxious about his family : I want him to bring them
to have some crumbs. He is so very zickle, you know,'
quoth May, looking up in an odd simple way which
delighted her veteran friend beyond all measure.

' You're too many for me, dear,' he said ; ' but let's
see what you've done ; you've had an hour at the old
picture, haven't you?'

' Yes, but the light is much too bright, and I can't
go on with it. Couldn't you start me with a gray-paper
sketch, a Turneresque? you have copied him a great
deal.'

' Well, it is very shiny just now, and I must wait before
I go over the pool — look what I got at Razor-Brigg.
You must fish before me with that light rod ; I see
Wharfedale expects you to do something. What fly has
he given you ? Claret body — silver twist—yellow tail —

326

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

hem — hem — not one of mine, but will do well, I dare
say. It will cloud over again soon, I feel more rain
coming.'

'Well, tell me some of Turner's methods on gray
paper, meanwhile.'

'Why, first you must have what I believe he never
cared for ; well-stretched gray paper. They sell what
they call Turner-gray paper at the shops, and it is very
nice in texture, but too blue in colour. His favourite
gray was much warmer. So take your gray block, and
mix some brown madder or light red with white —
thin and pale ; and run it over the whole of that nice
outline you've made : so as to warm the whole paper with-
out losing the lines. The sun will dry it in no time —
how fierce it is ; more rain coming : you've never had
rheumatics yet, May, have you ? I say, you must have
in that great cumulus cloud at the head of the valley —
not much of him — but the upper part : those swelling
masses of white and purple ; hills and vales of mist.
Put on some warm white1 thinly for his outline, as near
the round forms of the light side as you can, and leave
the gray paper for the shade just now. Now put the
darker shadows on that gray, mark them with cobalt
and a little rose and white — mind, on gray paper, white
must be taken with everything. Just blend a little here
and there, but don't lose much of the edges — let that
dry. Now look well at your outlines of trees, so as
to see where the brightest greens are. There are two
or three near ones, rather rounded and very bright ; put
them in first for landmarks — emerald, gamboge, and
white : and outline those rocks and the line of the river
with the brush. Those marks must guide you in putting

Add a little vermilion and yellow ochre to the ' Chinese ' white.

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

327

on the masses of light and shade ; for the worst of body-
colour is that it hides all pencil marks at once. Look
now at the subject and your work, and see where every-
thing is in each. There's your river, there are yonder
big rocks, and the deep shade under them, and the banks
above — just mark them with a fine brush in sharp brown
lines. Now you can't well lose yourself as to the forms,
and we must settle the composition of the thing all at
once, and decidedly ; can't have any changes in this
sort of work.'

' The cloud has all changed.'

' They will do it ; but you've secured a good deal of
him, and now look at your drawing. There is a shady
side of the glen, happily, against a bright part of the sky
as it now is ; and a bright sunlit side against the dark
side of the cloud. Your drawing will have two sides or
masses accordingly — dark against bright, and vice versa.
So put on your masses, light and dark, accordingly ; all
over middle distance and down into foreground : let me
just put the colours out for you on your tin palette,
and have three smallish brushes ready. Now, these are
half-tint masses, no chrome yet in the greens, and not
much white. Here, in two rows — mix them in one
brush, and keep another to touch on the purer hues ;
white with all. Sunny side ; mix emerald and gamboge,
same and ochre ; add a little from the shade colours in
the lower parts. Shady side ; Indian red (a little), cobalt,
ochre, and add the light colours in the lighted parts.
Cover the paper, then touch on the shade-forms on the
dark side ; and the lights on the light side deeper and
thinner; thickening the brighter touches with white.
Think well over it, don't hurry or overload, and never
touch twice if you can help it.'

Fast flew May's long dexterous fingers, and she got

328

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

on up to the edges of the two or three brighter trees
already put in as guides. ' Now the other small brush,
and put the brighter tree forms into the shadow before
it's quite dry — wait, it's too wet yet — now, emerald,
white, and gamboge or ochre, and take a little of the
warmer shade-colour if it's too bright. Less white in
the shades, mind. Look at the forms, and put them
on boldly, as well as you can ; and don't touch twice.
Well done ; now the broad light side, ochre and emerald
with white — a little chrome and white for high lights.
Put on the lower tint first, and touch on the higher
lights in form afterwards : you see your higher lights or
colours are all sunlit edges of tree and foliage. Try
and get all your tree forms in without breaking up the
mass. Now, a few of the deeper grays on the other
side with the other brush : the shadows between the
trees, and behind the trunks, and under the rocks. I
declare it's all in capital tone, quite broad, but plenty
of detailed form. But here comes the rain and shadow,
— don't be eager to go on — see how everything changes ;
it's quite a transformation scene, and we must wait for
the sun again.'

' Well, I'm quite glad ; it is so exciting, and I want
time to breathe.'

' Ah, that working against time is very hard work :
but come now and fish down the Clint before me ; it's
nice soft rain and warm shadow, and you're sure to get
something.'

May caught a nine-pound grilse at the lower end of
the pool, and Jagger netted it for her very skilfully ;
he did not like her to see the severe though rapid
operation of gaffing. The sun shone out again, and she
came back again tired and radiant to her drawing.
Ripon had the literary side of his fly-book open ; it

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319

always contained various small papers, and he soon
placed before her a small pen-and-ink facsimile of some
of Turner's foliage1.

' Here's your drawing quite dry, and looking ever so
nice. Now, take your pet fine brush, and accent all the
forms with it : make them out as if with pen-and-ink —
with just such touches as these. Look at the real trees,
then treat them like Turner. Put in the stems and larger
branches ; outline trees on the shady side, and hatch the
shade all over, as if you were doing it in pencil : use
some bright brown — sienna will do, or umber and lake.
When you have got in all the character with that, it will
look spotty, perhaps. Then take the darker greens, and
coloured shadows, and bring it together again by patches.
Fit in small patches of colour right up to the pen-and-
ink-looking lines, so as to combine with them and make
them part of the shade ; that is the essence of skill, to
bring those sharp lines iato the coloured drawing, and
you must work at Turner and Nature together to learn it.
Fit the deeper shadows of the trees as you model them
to your sharp outline, right up to the light, so as to make
the line a part of the form.

' But I'm getting very tired.'

' No wonder : but let me try and touch it up. What
you want now is force in foreground, strong pen-and-
inky drawing with brush and colour, and the local colour
fitted to it as I told you ; that in the first place — (long
industrious pause, the Reverend's fishy fingers active).
Now, I think that big stump, and Bob with the gaff
leaning against it, may come in there, about a quarter
across the paper on the left ; the curves of the pool lead
to him there. Try and get him in in broad warm

1 See Fig. 19, p. 204.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

shadow ; mix vermilion and violet-carmine — a touch of
yellow ochre; I think about this tone; he ought to
bring all together, because in fact, being in dark relief
against everything, he throws everything back. I really
think it does fall into true relation, and the river-bank
leads past him into the picture very well. Shall we let
well alone now ? I'm quite as tired as you ; and then
lunch — why it's three o'clock, p.m.'

' How do you know when the lights and shades are
in right tone or relation?'

' Quien sabe ? It's never certain to a demonstration,
but one way to see, is to look at your work through half-
shut eyes, so that you don't recognise any forms, but
only see the relation of the lights, and the composition
of the whole. Look here, you can reduce the power
of your eyesight till you only see that your white
cumulus here is the principal light, and that that comes
well with the bright greens and white water against
the shadow masses. Or stand well away from your
work every now and then, and see its composition from
a distance. Here's your lunch ; but the cloud's on
again heavy, and I saw a big one rise just this mo-
ment— to look at you, I suppose, like the salmon in
Charley's verses. Let's try and fetch him.'

CHAPTER XV.

IT was late autumn once more before Charley came
back from the East. A vivid account of the whole
expedition, with endless illustrations, exists to the pre-
sent day in MS. in May's possession. The proprietor-
ship of it must soon return to its author, as I am unable
to struggle much longer with the difficulties of preventing
their immediate union, which has hitherto seemed un-
desirable for the purposes of this book : and he has been
banished in consequence to the lands where the brooks
of morning run, beyond inhospitable Caucasus and fabu-
lous Hydaspes, only to keep him out of the way. For
the present narrative, the tale of what he did and en-
dured may be summed up in his own statement, after
embraces, to his father and mother — that he got on all
right. He reappeared one day at Red Scaurs, a few
days after his last letters, dated many weeks before.
He had not slept in a bed since he didn't know when,
except at sea. He hadn't stopped at all since Brindisi.
He was about the colour of rosewood. He was very
hungry, and glad to have dropped in for a late break-
fast ; he would have the rest of the grilled salmon, thank
you, and all the eggs that were left ; fresh eggs would
be very nice now, though at one time he had got quite to
like them with a taste. He wasn't very tired, he thought ;
had slept a good deal generally in the last four days.

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

He was in hopes he was a stone lighter permanently.
He had on a suit of dressed deerskin, with leggings,
and a long capote with a hood over, and gray hog-
hunter's hat. He had just seen old Tom and Julia, and
had left his heavy baggage with them in Park Lane.
He ate the whole remains of a large family breakfast,
and then it was as if he had never been away. And
when he had made the exhaustive answer above men-
tioned to Lady Susan's comprehensive demand to be
told all about the whole thing directly, he dropped into
an easy chair opposite her in her own room, and said^
'Where's old May?5 as if that young woman ought to
be produced at once, like something to drink.

May was at Torquay, nursing poor old Miss Langdale,
her father's elder sister, who was very helpless, and
seemed fast failing. Her niece had been with her for
six weeks and more, ' but even she can't keep her going
much longer. Charley,' said his father, 'she has put
life into us all the summer. I used rather to wish you
had been a girl, to stay at home and look after us ; but
you'd have been married, you know — and now do go
and marry her as soon as you can.'

' Shall I go on to Torquay next week ? I must go to
town to send two pictures to the Dudley.'

' No, I think not, Charley ; at least, don't stay any
time,' said Lady Susan. ' You see, it wasn't your
fault, but nobody's had any letters for ever so long, and
she did not like it, I know : she was growing very grave
and silent about you before she went.'

Charley jumped up, 'Why, how can one help the ways
of camel couriers, and that infernal Messagerie post?
Damascus was our metropolis, you know, and we had
to send everything there from the Euphrates : you don't
understand, you dear old things ; ' and he rubbed his

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333

great beard against his mother's fair delicate-wrinkled
cheeks. 'We've been living in the days of Abraham,
and the land of Ishmael, you know. You musn't be
angry with me : I wrote almost every mail.'

' Well, I don't suppose we are, but we must have time,
and we musn't have any hurry or liberties, I rather
think, young man. We look rather better than ever ;
but more like twenty-eight than twenty-three — so take
time, dear boy !'

'Time — hasn't she had too much already?5
'Pardon me — she has had a good deal ; but you know
it's you have made her wait ; not she you. Now,
Charley, do what I tell you for once. Either don't go
to Torquay at all : or better, pay a flying visit if you
like ; but don't say anything to her yet, unless she
makes you ; as I hope she can do in five minutes if
she likes.'

'Yes — but when, in the name of wonder?'

' Pooh, Charley, you never let me tell you ; you're
to meet her at Hawkstone the first thing in December,
and hunt, and stay over Christmas. Flora insists, and
we thought it much better. She has been here since
May went in September, and was very good and dear.
You young ones don't do so badly for us, after all.'

' Well, it's pretty clear what Vm to do next, and we'll
see. But I think a little talkee at Torquay won't do
any harm ; and I do want to see her again very bad.
Really, I have thought about her no end ever since I went
off; all day long on the long camel-rides. You can't
think how keen I got as soon as ever we turned home-
wards ; from t'other side of Bagdad, ever so far off.
The Duchess used to laugh, and say I sighed ; and
I know she wanted me to start sooner.'

' I hope Holderness didn't, too.'

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1 Nonsense, they were both delighted, and principally
with each other.'

' Change has done her good, I suppose : it must have
been pretty complete.'

'Oh yes, she has got all her strength again, and
they're on their way back now, for reasons. She seemed
to want nothing so much as adventure, and the sight of
things great and strange ; — said something very prettily
to Holderness, at last — before me, you know, — about
staying at home ever after, and trying to do what she
ought. He kissed her, and they didn't seem to think
me de trop, though I vanished as soon as I could.'

' May might be worth a good deal to her sometimes,'
said his father, thoughtfully. ' You can't live the pace
with them, of course ; but they will want to keep you
to them, I should think, and you might see each other.
You will soon see what they feel about it when you're
settled ; and you know it is really as cheap to visit him
as it would be to live with a set of the commercial
autocrats. By the way, Charles, you've never been ex-
travagant : but you and she won't have more than
£1500 a-year— setting aside pictures/

' Pictures begin to pay better now ; but only to think
what that would be to half the men I think most of,
and their poor little hard-working wives ! I've always
had all I wanted except honour and glory — never got
enough of that ; no more did Dr. Johnson of wall-fruit.
But I've saved a good deal, really.'

' Well, I do hope and trust you'll settle it all at Flora's :
but don't be in too great a hurry, and give her her head
in everything. Gave a qui la touche — that's what men
seem to feel about her. You know more about love-
making at your age than I do, my boy ; but there was
a story of a Prince I always went by.'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

335

' Say on, Papa/ said Charley, enormously amused
and interested. His father had never talked so to him
before.

1 Well, he got into the Castle of True Love, and walked
up a long corridor, doors on each side, and one golden
one at the end. On all the side doors was written over
and over again, "Be bold, be bold, be bold;" on the
grand one at the end, " Be not too bold.'"

' I don't quite see it in all its bearings ; but I'll do my
best.'

CHAPTER XVI.

HE Hawkstone winter hospitalities had two stages,

JL Christmas and after Christmas ; and May was
generally employed in both. She used to like to stay at
or near her accustomed school and hospital at RotherclifTe,
relieving some sister or nurse in her work, from about
October to near the year's end. Then invitations grew
pressing, and Flora always began about Charles, and
Charles would write himself, and she would go off plea-
suring. For this year the care of her aunt had filled up
her time ever since the end of the summer sojourn at Red
Scaurs, which had made her almost essential to Lady
Susan's existence, and so far had pleaded strongly in
her son's favour. Charles had descended on Torquay,
and the elder Miss Langdale had seen and quite taken
to him. He had dined with May, and her aunt had
made an effort, and acted as chaperone very happily ;
but she lived in great weakness and suffering, after all,
and May, though glad and kind to a degree, seemed
pre-occupied, and more anxious about her than about
him. Of course, though silent on the subject, the dark
maiden was not exactly unaware of the proposed meeting
at Hawkstone : on which, in fact, her aunt keenly in-
sisted. She had a dread of living on the strength of
the young ; life was very difficult after thirty, she said ;
and good girls ought to get anything they liked to
call pleasure whenever they could. As a rule, May

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337

enjoyed her own pleasures as much as a schoolgirl ; that
is to say, she worked hard at piano, reading and music,
and thought no more, after Halle's instructions, of playing
Beethoven to 1 500 critical and competent weavers at
Rothercliffe, than she did of performing to a children's
party ; and she pursued water-colour as she did every-
thing, with all her not inconsiderable power, because the
work was peace to her high spirit, c which, if it dreamed,
dreamed only of great deeds.'

But she was a daughter of Eve, though rather a good
one : and rich dress, and being admired, and hearing
good music, and dancing a little, and having some
hunting, and the variety of odd or nice people she
met in country houses, and the sometimes quaint and
original talk of both men and women ; even champagne
at dinner, and good coffee and cream afterwards ; — all
these pleasures retained their savour to Margaret Lang-
dale (at full length this time), because she so often went
without them, and so gladly.

Her independence and decision were greatly to Master
Charles's advantage. The great majority of men don't
understand a woman who doesn't make up to them, and
she certainly frightened many. Eligibles naturally enjoy
being adored more than they do adoring, and therefore
prefer gentle dulness and helplessness, and little bou-
deries and minauderies, and becoming griefs, ' consolable
by presents of bracelets.' May asked for support or
comfort — about as much as she would have asked for
presents, and no more : her grand repose, and strong
sense of humour daunted many a good fellow who
honestly liked and admired her, but felt he wanted
somebody to depend on him. Then she was so hope-
lessly good-natured to everybody ; especially to younger
brothers, or unfriended or awkward lads. Charles made

338

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

almost his nearest approach to real deep love for her, to
do him justice, when he saw her take up some shy, or
stupid, or even priggish young man : there was some-
thing so kind and odd in that form of self-sacrifice ;
and she often really did improve fellows, and fetch them
up so. If she took him coolly, it was quite clear there
was nobody else. And then it struck him to ask himself
why no man had yet gone desperately at May, she
being what all men saw her?

The question was awkward ; but Charles was honest
and not foolish, and he answered it strongly to his own
disadvantage — that he and his good looks, and inde-
pendence and improving position, and general nearness
and fitness, was keeping others from her and not taking
her himself. That did not quite satisfy him ; and then
he thought that if she felt bound to him, he was bound
to her. Then if he were free, would it be nicer? H'm —
he did not see it— but he knew that her indifference to
others was marked, at least. He went on to reflect that
he would certainly have to speak first, as she couldn't
propose to him ; and then astonished himself by the
speed with which he rushed at the practical conclusion
of saying something decisive as soon as he could get
a chance. But what constituted a chance ? What could
he have in that way more than he had had for ever
so long? He began to think of all manner of scenes,
in which May saved him all the trouble, and he himself
affably bestowed his hand on his dark Rose (so styled
by more than one painter) with so much of his heart
as was not invested in the quest of fame. Fame —
what was that for him ? Well, his parents' and old Tom's
pride in him, and the Professor's praise, and grim Stern-
chase's approval, — if fame was anything else, she could
give it him ; or else it would only come to being talked

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339

about by men at clubs, and women at kettledrums, and
the Chanticleer and Scholasticus. Then the scenes
struck his Yorkshire wit as being rather one-sided and
selfish. He mentally resolved to win or lose all at
Hawkstone, and as the time drew near a real and deep
anxiety crept over him. It did so strong a man no
harm ; in fact, it gave him the great advantage of for-
getting his ambition, and feeling that there were many
better things in the world than dividing the honours of
a newspaper with advertisements and police reports.

He sent one of his pictures to a winter exhibition,
saw it well hung at the private view, and sent Warhawk
off by train, with Jack Hannam his old groom and fac-
totum. An old Burlington-Vermont friend bought the
picture straightway, and accepted an invitation to Red
Scaurs in the early spring, to see hunting and English
country ways. Then he had nothing else to do in town ;
his brother had gone North, and he followed his own
thoughts in that direction. His independence and
liberty, and all that, they were going — and let them go.
Some of the men talked about that sort of thing ; but
after all, there was happiness perhaps ; and May's form
and look rose before him, as a person least likely of all
in the world to check or encumber any man. As he
lay awake in Baker-street the last night, he heard the
south wind breathing rain against the studio windows ;
and Rob Doun's deerstalking verses came into his mind.
He chuckled rather cynically as he remembered how
sadly the mind of that poet had been distracted between
love and the Red Kings of the hill.

' Easy is my bed, it is easy :

But it is not to sleep that I incline.
The wind whistles northwards, northwards,
And my thoughts move with it. . . .

Z 2

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

Choicest of all places for deer-hunting
Are the brindled rock and the ridge :

Joyful will it be to me to see thee,
Fair girl, with the long heavy locks :

Sweet at evening to be dragging the slain deer
Downwards, along the Piper's Cairn.'

Then he thought of his own strength and health, and
intensity of life, and the greatness of the blessings given
him from his youth up ; and he rose, and said his
prayers again.

Ripon got into the train at Rugby, having a horse-
box in attendance, which contained the Black Monk
in fair condition, though perhaps rather short of work.
Their greeting, Charles's and Rip's— not the horse's or
the box's — was glad and brief, and they began on
affairs.

'Well, we're all no end obliged for your Christmas
present,' said the Vicar ; ' spent it all in coals — nothing
like coals : poor people would rather have them than
meat ; go farther too.'

'How so, Rook?'

' Why, two people can't eat the same pound of mut-
ton ; but they can warm themselves at the same fire ; —
obvious, my dear fellow. You've done us real good.'

'Little enough, I'm afraid. Really, I'm ashamed
never to have wanted for anything. Oughtn't I to visit,
and go after people more myself?'

' You do, in your own country where you know them ;
and it is something to keep friends for years with
weavers and colliers. You would waste time and
strength, and be fearfully done, if you went about Lon-
don, or any place you did not know. It would be no
use spoiling a good painter, to make a doubtful district-
visitor.'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

341

' I daresay ; but the state of London back-streets
spoils my life somehow.'

'And every other good Christian's. But practically
you would be doing more harm than good by going about
wildly tipping everybody who looked worse off than your-
self. I fear one always does mischief in one's appren-
ticeship to almsgiving. When you begin, experto crede,
you can't help giving to the first and the filthiest, and
as you go on there is always the same dismal choice
to make, whether decent poverty or filthy extreme of
• want shall have the gift. Those who live on alms are
invariably the chief plagues and oppressors of their
decent poor neighbours. If you knew the nuisance a
drunkard is in his quartier, you'd never spare him.
We have to help their wives and children, and they
beat us that way.'

' Well, you're our conscripts in the matter, and I sup-
pose you can no more get yourselves satisfied with your
work, than I with my pictures.'

'No, but that's not the object in either case. But
suppose you know a certain number of decent families
— not models or paragons, but people getting on in an
ordinary way, good and bad ; suppose you talk com-
mon talk, good-natured rather than goody, with such
people, and establish some interest in common with
them — their children's education and start would be
best, but even sport or politics are better than nothing
— start an acquaintance with a common interest ; then,
if you get a chance to give them a help, it will be
good for them soul and body.'

'The former, do you really think?'

' I hope so. I am often reduced to the saddest silence
about their souls ; let us pray that all souls may be
quickened who cleave to the dust, rich and poor. But

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

there is this always, you may be sure, — that they know
that you care for them, because they and you have got
souls, as Christian people 5 and your gift is a testimony
accordingly. They know enough to know that. Put
yourself in their place. You are, and look, rather a
swell, and have that rare power of talking to poor men
in their own way. When you do so to your labourers,
do you think they never connect your being their
friend with your going to church with them, or some
of them?'

'May does a deal more '

'Ah, May, none like her! she was brought up to
ministry in the best way . . . and then there are not

twenty women in England fit to hold 5 A pause:

then Charley dashed into his subject, or rather cut de-
liberately down on his main point.

'Old man, I am going to propose to her straight off:
do you think she'll have me?'

The Vicar's eyes wrinkled and flashed ; and he said,
' Rather !— but '

' Go on, old Rook ; I've neglected her, you mean.'

'Little more passion would do good, I should say —
wonder you can help it.'

' Passion takes two, you know ; and she never shows
any.'

' She can't very well let down her back hair and pro-
pose to you. Really, most young men now seem to
expect that at least ; but, Charley, you must notice that
she is proud of you, and laughs when you laugh, and
follows your thoughts, and caps your sayings, and does
anything you ask her. For such a person, she has waited
long at that'

< Conf you don't think so ?' Rip shook his head like

Lord Burleigh. ' Why she's got that motherly way with

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343

everybody ; and as to sayings, she never misses a good
thing of anybody's ; but, I say, if she really cares, it will
be the making of me.'

' It will be all right, D.V.' said the other quietly ; but,
my dear fellow, do say something to her about not
having been a forward lover : or at least, don't take her
too coolly. Nobody else in England would.'

'Well, I can't think what it will be like, and I'm in
quite funk enough, I'm sure ; but she won't have much
longer to wait. Look here ; I never underrated her,
I think ; but I have cared and I do care so much for
painting. It seems to carry one away, and swallow one
whole somehow, and for large spaces of life one can
think of nothing else. Will she stand that?'

' Of course, if you tell her about it, as you tell me.
That's for you and her. Why, they'll forgive anything,
if you really open to them, and tell all about it, and let
them take up their little parable in answer. And May
has quite sense enough to know that Art isn't a live
flesh-and-blood rival, and that she might have had
others. Don't be vain; you are very eligible, I know.
But she is the greatest clipper of the two : and if you
lost her, which Heaven forbid, she would feel it now
far the most, I dare say ; but you'd be the worse all
your time till the day of your death, and so should I
till mine, dear young 'un.'

' I shouldn't wonder,' said Cawthorne gravely, ' but we
won't talk of that ; I can't face the notion now ; indeed,
I don't think I ever could — but I've been very dull
indeed to risk the possibility. I say, arn't you rather
for a snooze, after early rising?'

They dozed comfortably as they fled over the coal-
field and its cities of Erebus ; then changed trains, and
glided away north-westward for a space ; then, long after

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

dark, they stopped at the little station short of Bristle-
bury, where the Hawkstone break awaited them, glaring
with its bright lamps on the white road. The
black stepped out of his box, rubbed his nose against
his master, and was stayed up with a large apple, and
further comforted with gingerbread nuts. His master,
feeling chilly, mounted him and trotted behind or beside
the break, chatting with the servants and Charles about
crops and hounds, and the country-side in general. ' Mr.
Cawthorne and the Vicar alius has plenty to tell, and
they likes to hear you too, Jim,5 the old coachman had
said to the new groom ; ' neither on 'em ever gives a
bad word, and we mostly makes it answer to 'em.'

There was warm firelight, and various lamps shone in
the porch and hall when they arrived : and Flora and
May issued from the former's sanctum, where they had
probably been engaged as when we first met them, in
talking about their painter. With little fresh to say,
May had defended him, but with a rather grave and set
face, which made Flora uneasy. They had kissed each
other rather closely as the break drew up. Sir Jack
Lattermath issued from 'his interior,' still in knicker-
bockers and leggings, after a day's woodmarking and
felling, with Reresby and another squire like-minded.
All were glad to see each other. May shook hands with
Ripon eagerly, with Charles quietly ; but he could not
drop her long hand for ever so long ; and she let it lie
in his quite passively — rather too much so. He thought
she did look like Isis in good earnest, rather grand and
inscrutable, in repose no man could break. She asked
him about his painting and glazing exactly as usual,
with interest and pleasure in his success, but scarcely as
if she shared it in spirit with him. The fancy struck
him with a kind of pang, and he said something of

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345

having got a likeness of her at last in a new picture, and
that with eyes and voice much more lover-like than usual.
She only said, ' Dear me, entirely from memory, — how
very clever ! ' and began to ask Rip about his new book,
and his parish.

Then Gerty came and eagerly greeted both the new
arrivals : the Vicar, she supposed, had come to take her
home. Flora claimed her decidedly for another fort-
night at least : this was Monday, and he might take
her off" on Saturday week, if he had the heart to do any-
thing so unkind ; but he had a free Sunday, and dis-
tinctly shouldn't have Gerty, or be let go himself, till
after that. Jack said there was a spare horse, and the
pheasants to kill, and a general rabbiting, and no end
of wood-ranging, and a rat hunt, and an unusual quan-
tity of snipe and duck along the Gore towards the sea,
especially if it froze ; and both of them looked seden-
tary, and wanted gallops. And he pinched Flora's
ear as she stood very close to him, facing Ripon ; all
bright cheeks and brown eyes, crimson and white in
complexion ; dressed in willow-green satin ; half com-
manding, all tender and funny, ready to scold or to
coax. Rip said she was utterly irresistible by man,
but he didn't know what Gerty might do. Gerty said
she wanted to stay, she was sure ; and Flora kissed
her, and said she should never go at all. Then she
sent Jack off to dress, with an admonition ; and that
hero strode off grinning, his teeth and eyes shining
through his black whiskers and dark-red face: in
short, there was a general flight into Egypt, till dinner
with sundry guests appeared at 7.30 p.m. May came
in late ; in black, white, and carnation, and slid into a
place between Reresby and Lord Wharfedale, who
communed sweetly with and across her about hounds,

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clergy, concerts, Catapult, Conservative reaction, scent,
sermons and the new school-board. Charles sat opposite,
under a severe examination about pictures, conducted
by Mrs. Reresby and Susan Milton. They both gave
it him with instinctive malice — or benevolence, they
didn't know which, or he either ; and the more distrait
he was the better they liked it. Very much the same
comedy went on on both sides the table ; and Flora
and Jack at opposite ends ate their dinner with good
conscience and appetite, in the midst of a storm of con-
versation, which seemed to blow like a tornado all round
the compass at once, and had the charm of total incon-
gruity. These are the snatches which Flora's ear de-
tected in rapid succession : —

'Well, you know, the bishops were regularly worried
into attacking Dr. Peschito . . . and they all but chopped
him in cover . . . his handling and sense of colour are
so exquisite . . . and he gave us the sharpest forty
minutes you ever saw in your life . . . delightfully toned
down with rose madder . . . till old Atherstone came
the most tremenjuous cropper on his . . . ancient reredos,
which is beautifully carved, you know, but at present
illegal, and out of all artistic reason. Quite so, Mrs.
Reresby . . . and then we found another in Bewerly
Brake ... in a chasuble and beretta . . . and blazed
into him and ate him in the open . . . after his sermon
had lasted I don't know how long . . . the tag of
his brush was . . . three-quarters of an hour long, and
full of deadly heresies . . . and he took five years
to finish that picture, because he was so long finding
a model with six fingers and six toes to study from,
and everything must be done direct from Nature,
Mr. Cawthorne? Exactly, Miss Milton: doesn't the
general conversation sound rather as if we were all

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347

gone cracked ? Rather agreeable, I think ; not nearly
so bad as old Lady Bangbanagher, who was here last
night. Sir John says she's like a thousand of bricks, she's
so impetuous and confusing ; none of us but May can
stand it at all.' And so it came round to the old subject
with Charles, and his eye caught May's as of old,
and the time seemed pleasanter to them both. That
grand patience of her's, so ready to take the labour oar,
and work or be bored as required. Had she needed
much patience with him? — he grew anxious for his
chance.

However, there was none to-night, and next day was
a grand labourers' dinner, with a concert afterwards ;
and May and he, and the whole strength of the com-
pany, were employed all day and night, and went to
bed utterly tired out. But he worked away under her
attentively, and she ordered him about freely — though
rather, as he thought, for the sake of his work than of
himself. She seemed provokingly at her ease all the
time. To be quietly active in women's ways was her
nature, and made all things endurable to her ; and she
had made up her mind to have him on fair conditions,
and to make them easier according to his behaviour.
Waiting was one of them ; and thinking he might as
well know what it was like, she took advantage of
Flora's requiring a good deal of help just then, and
exerted herself so steadily as to keep her lover effec-
tually at the stave's end for the rest of the week.

By that time, however, Charles began to think he
feared his fate too much. The family party had the
house to themselves on Monday evening ; the pheasants
and rabbits had been slain sufficiently; and Tuesday
was a great hunting day. Gerty and May were going
out, and it struck Charles how he could go a-head

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

on old Catapult, if he felt that her mistress was quite
his own. He thought of it after dinner, and took his
heart in both hands, as soon as he was in the drawing-
room. He sat by the piano as she sang to Ripon ; and
when she had done, he said quietly, 'Come into the
garden, Maud — I mean the library.' She caught the
tone and words, and cast black dilated eyes on him :
the time had come, and she felt unready, as one always
does at a great new crisis. For good or evil, great things
always happen suddenly. The mysterious visits of joy are
always new and strange ; and heavy troubles seem to fall
on us like the tower of Siloam, or rush at us from secret
nooks like fierce beasts from ambush. Nevertheless, she
took courage and his arm, and felt it press hers very
decidedly, as they strolled across the hall, and found the
library empty, with blazing logs and peat, one bright
lamp, and a comfortable ottoman, on which he in-
stalled her.

' May, may I have a kiss ? I haven't had one since '

' Yes, if you like, dear.' She gave him her cheek, and
it seemed rather cold, bright as it was. Then —

' But I want your lips too, and all of you — I want you
to be my wife — you are all the world to me — I never
knew how much till now, and I can't tell you now/

' Will you ever have time to tell me, Charles, or am I
always to take it for granted, and make believe? You
know women like fondness, and tender silly ways, and
all that — and I most of all women (Charles gave a great
start) — and you never — and love can't quite be " taken
as read " when one hasn't heard a word of it.'

' No, dear, I've neglected you and done you wrong,
and that's the truth ; but you'll never want for those
things again,' — and he sat down beside her, and drew
her to him somewhat victoriously. But May drew away,

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349

and stood before him at her full height, with a very
grave face ; and Charley, nothing daunted, though much
alarmed, gathered his nerve for his need.

' Please don't, Charles ; I have waited so long, that
this comes on me suddenly — I have been trying to learn
to give you up for years — and I can't take you up in a
moment. How did you come to care so much just now,
and not before?'

' I don't know, dear — I always did care ; I never
thought of anybody else — but I was deep in my work*
and you seemed happy in yours — but I really have
always looked for you — I never thought of any one else
as my wife.'

' Nor I of any husband but you ; but, Charley, that's
more reason why we need not hurry now : and I must
tell you, I want all of you for ever ; and I will have all or
none,' — and May looked as if she had marked Mont-
rose's words also, and her face and form seemed to grow
grander and brighter, and the light of her deep eyes
broke on Charles's, and he felt he must have her or die.
But his blood was roused, and his wit had the readiness
of need, and he said with great quiet, —

' I said so ; I have gone after fancies and half-forgotten
you, dear Love. But you may forgive — for there is no
woman but you. And after all Io son Pittore, you know
— you don't want me for a lapdog — and even my fancies
are visions that I have seen, and I must follow.'

May looked thoughtful, and her face grew softer :
her voice never rose at all unless when she sang; — but
now it came to him in a far-away abstracted tone. ' Tell
me about painters' visions. Are they really better
things than love? I know yours used to vex me, be-
cause I never seemed to be a part of them ; — and you
must be mine or not mine.'

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

' My dear, you have always been part of my ideal ; —
if that's all, you have been the ideal of some of the best
gentlemen in England, Jack, Rip, Reresby, the Praeses.
As for me, I've always felt strong because I counted
on you, and felt that you would be with me — like Pallas
with Paris, you know,' — and Charley's crest rose, and he
blazed up in his turn — not a man to be despised. Nor
did May despise him ; but she held to her purpose.

' Now, Charles, dear ; you must wait a little to be sure
about me, whether I am your love in earnest. I must be
that : I am sure you have a great deal of heart, and
somebody must have it if I don't ; and it is not safe for
us to marry without your giving it all to me. You know
if you are to live for art and culture, you will easily find
somebody more artistic and cultured, and then '

' My dear, I don't expect to be captivated away from
you by finishing governesses, and I don't think hearing
or giving second-rate lectures a special function of
woman. I care — I do care— more for you than for Art
or anything.'

'That's rather a late conviction, dear! Now wait a
year — six months — and then tell me if you love me
best.'

Charles had fought his way to half-arm, and he now
dropped his head and rushed in, figuratively speaking.
He was reckless between love and temper, and longing to
win at once, — 1 1 ask you now, to have or to leave me.'

Also in figure, May met him with her metaphorical
right, in a manner and with a vigour to which he had
been hitherto totally unaccustomed.

' Then for six months, I leave you ; and you are quite
free from this moment, in honour and feeling and alto-
gether, as if you had never seen me, or I had never been.
If you ask me at the end of that time, I will be your

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

351

wife, if I am alive and sane. But you must ask me as
you began — not quite like that last. Good-night, dear ;
we shall do no good by going on now.'

He looked at her almost savagely for a moment : for
they had defied each other, and their ancient blood rose
the more merrily to that tune, for that they loved each
other, and felt their mutual power of infliction ; — that
fond rage and tender cruelty of quarrel, the temptation
of Anteros ! But Charles's good angel was behind him,
and that unseen presence was perhaps reflected in May's
steady look as she faced him. She held out her hand,
and he kissed it once, twice — over and over again. She
gave him her cheek again — what satin it was ! — then she
vanished and he sat looking where she had been. . How
different the room looked without her ! She had beaten
him, decidedly ; but he had deserved worse : and after
all he had got off well — six months wouldn't last for
ever, and would only make him twenty-eight and her
twenty-four. December to June ! — by Jove, they might
go up to old Tombuie. — Was she very angry ? she had
looked so for a moment — (perhaps he wasn't exactly
looking spoony about that time either) — anyhow he
had her word, and he knew it was as good as her bond.
Flora came in rather anxiously, and told him May had
gone to bed. He only said, ■ It's all right, Floy, dear ;
but we shall have to wait a- bit' — and so left her at least
half-relieved.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHARLES CAWTHORNE awoke next morning
with a compressed kind of after-the-battle feeling,
which was rather new to him. He wanted neither nerve
nor courage : that is to say he could face an awkward, or
even dangerous matter with full possession of his powers,
and know what to do ; and that without going through
all the previous agonies which apprehensive men of
courage feel ante tubas. Had he been a Greek hoplite,
he would have been ready of himself, and not have
wanted a speech before phalanx met phalanx : the
trumpets and thick tumult would have been enough to
stir his mettle. But Greek or no Greek, he woke at the
summons of a lad in the house (called from his voracious
appetite the Gobbling Page), and dressed with new life
and feelings in him. He had taken May too coolly ;
but that she should have taken it to heart, and that
as silently as a Sachem, and waited till the right
time before saying a word ; that old May, whom he
really believed in, should be hurt about him after all ;
that she could perhaps give him so much more than
he asked or hoped ; and that she should look so tran-
scendent, in quietly telling him he might go if he liked ; —
all this made a great mess of his notions of art, culture,
and deportment. He was man enough to be rather
ashamed, and lover enough to be decidedly frightened.
Neither she nor he had ever condescended to flirtation

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353

with another, or to the least attempt to pique one
another; and honestly thinking more of her than of
himself, the thought of her grand constancy affected
him a good deal. And to have to do without her really
alarmed him : he had never been so threatened before,
and had seldom met with a threat which commanded
his spirit instead of raising it. Her eyes had been wet,
and had left some moisture on his brown cheek that last
time ; could she really cry about him, she who cared no
more for the face of man than John Knox or Leviathan ?
He chuckled at the comparison of May to either. All
the loving part of him broke out within, and would have
done so in another moment the night before ; but May
had been too quick, and looked too tremendous.

May did perhaps cry somewhat to herself before she
went to bed, but not with pain or anger. She had said
what was right, she thought, and had certainly got the
best of it. Charles had, after all, never gone after any-
body else ; and he did look so startled and kind, and
fierce too ; and he had quite humbled himself. Perhaps
she ought to do so a little. Did he really care all he
could care ? Men weren't very passionate, after all. In
short, May prayed for what might be best, and dropped
into deep sound sleep according to her wont.

To her duly entered her maid at 8 a.m., with hot
water, habit and etceteras : and she laughed to herself at
hearing a violent bang over her head, which announced
that her young man, so generally called, was leaving his
couch as early as she was. She looked out of window as
she dressed.

* The wind was north-east, and most bitterly keen.
'Twas the worst hunting morning that ever was seen.'

There seemed to be dew or moisture, however, and the

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

rattle of a passing scud of sleet and rain soon explained
its presence. Everything warm, jacket and skirt ; soft
mits and neat gauntlets ; hat and cord, watch, two
sovereigns, much loose silver, and some whipcord ;
Charles's gift of a hunting-knife, small flask and sand-
wich case. Another series of concussions above, point-
ing to an internecine struggle between a gentleman and
his boots ; troubles with her own happily overcome.
Bell for morning prayers, and Ripon officiating in
butcher-boots, dark grey cords with waistcoat con-
forming, black cut-away, the neatest possible white tie
in a knot, and bright heavy spurs. It was a great meet
that day, and in any other wind they would have been
sure of a merry-go-rounder, but the chances of scent
were doubtful enough for the present.

The conduct of old Catapult, we regret to say, had
not of late been marked by her usual discretion. She
had sent one of the boys over her head, and eaten a
portion of him afterwards, rendering him unfit for use for
some time ; she had decidedly got away with a groom,
and swum the Trewhitt with him against his will ; she
was just manageable on condition of being always in the
same field with the hounds ; in fact, the old girl was
getting the better of them, they said, and it was Charley's
turn to take it out of her : in short, he begged May to
let him tackle her once, and ride his own old Warhawk
instead. He knew the old mare's ways ; he weighed
nearly fourteen stone with his saddle and bridle ; he had
tremendous arms, great strength in the saddle, and a
rough rider's nerve, once started; for painting had scarcely
begun to tell on his hard country-made frame. So
rather to May's relief on this occasion, he was to ride
Catapult in front, or as hard as she liked to go ; and
Ripon, who knew the country well, was to be ladies'

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

355

pilot in the second flight. ' The Monk's short of work/
said Sir John, 'and the Goredale are a good deal faster
since Wharfedale has been master ; but he's a good little
nag, and I think you'll be able to keep ahead of May
and Gerty for three or four miles ; and Warhawk's safe
for May, even if she can't quite hold him.' The Rook
assented, as he did to everything in the sporting way. He
looked rather worn and nervous, after the summer and
autumn of hard town work ; but he was ready to go ; and,
as he said, doing as he was bid took off all responsibility.
May was, in fact, the only person, except himself and
his old groom, whom Charley ever would mount on
Warhawk. That determined veteran knew her ; her
strong toil of grace had been too much for him, as for
others of his sex ; and he whinnied after her, and was
as jealous of Catty and Kitty whenever she rode or
noticed them, as if he had been accustomed to ball-
rooms all his life.

The horses come round ; Charles and May have hardly
spoken ; they can hardly face each other : but he is at
her side to lift her to her saddle ; and a strange new
thrill runs through them both as she lays her hand on his
shoulder. Flora is not riding just now, and looks at
them both, as if looks could do any good ; perhaps such
looks might, so keen and loving. She sees them go off
together down the ride, and notices they don't talk. Jack
joins them presently from the stable-yard ; and many
are the stains on that broad-backed pink of his. Ripon
puts up Gertrude, delighted with her first visit to the
North ; but rather distrait, wondering perhaps whether
Wharfedale remembers the way he talked to her the
evening before : but she feels the Vicar is doing his best
to please her, and talks on to him in a half younger-
sisterly, half daughterly way, which brightens up his

A a 2

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

wrinkled face. They go on about horses, and the cold
wind, and how one could not live through an English
winter without hunting ; and so they get to Rome and
Naples, and begin to talk of great deeds in history, and
pictures. You may talk in pairs on high things in English
society if you like, and people are not insensible ; but a
regular melee of good conversation is beyond us. About
six miles trot and canter by road, and then they see the
hounds, at Headless Cross on Stanmore Fell.

It was a low eminence, far down the long grazing vale,
which rose gradually to high moors where four counties
met, at its high end ten miles off, and extended the
other way to the edge of the coal-field, within sight of
the far smoke of manufactures. A few houses, which
looked as if they had been promiscuously dropped from
the skies for being incurably ugly up there, a stony
street bleached with rain, the small storm-beaten church,
reminding Rip of his own ; two great and noble yews,
by the Headless Cross ; Lord Wharfedale as Master in
his first season, standing in his stirrups and taking off
his hat to Gerty as if he meant to holloa her away ;
Reresby the Great as his chief counsellor ; huntsman,
whips, and about thirty or forty horsemen ; a hard-
looking lot, both men and hounds, with condition
marked on the light strength of huntsman and whips,
and speed, power and courage for big fences, pretty
legible in the look of their horses, — such were the
Goredale.

The Hawkstone party kept rather high on the hill,
just opposite a long stripe of cover on an opposite slope,
the first draw ; the pack crossed the little beck between,
and the first whip flew on to the upper-farther end of
the wood on that side. The hounds vanished into cover
at once, spread and worked slowly on up-wind. It was

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

357

as it has been, year by year and life by life. What is
there that will last ? and what is there that has lasted
much longer for the Englishman than fox-hunting ? So
thought Rip poetically, as he watched hounds and
huntsmen through the long warm cover in vain : there
wasn't a whimper from end to end. Charles had taken
old Catapult all through it, and she evidently saw that
all had been done to please her; but she dropped her
head, and tore and bored at her bit, and set up her
quarters, and so on : she never showed temper, but she
wanted to go.

Well, that sort of thing went on ever so far up the
dale ; they rode about the country in a general way
from cover to cover, and saw hounds work, as men say
with emphatic delight, when they don't want to see them
run straight ; and they nibbled biscuits which Gerty and
May produced out of their side-saddle pockets, and they
took nips of sherry about one o'clock. And Catty had
nearly pulled Charles's hands off ; and Warhawk was
giving May quietly to understand that if anybody but
she had been on his back he wouldn't have stood this
sort of thing so long ; and they came to the top of
another low hill above another long cover, and stood like
Eliza (whoever she was) on the wood-crowned height,
not paying much attention to the hounds below, when
Jack and Charles shot down the slope, sans phrase,
and they all saw three or four couple of hounds slip
away fast and mute from the further end of the cover.
Rip and the ladies waited until they saw the rest of
the hounds were nigh out of cover, and the field below
beginning to gallop. The black seized his bit eagerly,
and his rider, nothing loth, sat back and let him
scramble down hill in his own fashion : in a squall
of sleet and rain they went away. There was a gap

358

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

in the large ragged fence into the wood, and Ripon
shot through it over the accustomed ditch ; they all
plunged and crashed through the cover, hit on a foot-
path, and got over the low stile beyond in rapid suc-
cession. The path led into a narrow field between two
arms of the cover, and there was a big bullfinch at the
field's end which showed tokens of one or two flying
passengers, but was still large and thick enough to make
the question of what was on the other side a dubious
matter. Two or three men were by way of breaking
a gap, and a knot of horsemen were waiting on that
operation.

' Please let us have it,' said the Rook, borne as on the
wings of the wind, and sending his voice far before him.
The unready and the prudent made lightsome room as
the Monk rushed on snorting, and went over and through
all with the jolly crash of flying sticks— so different from
the ominous cracking of rails. ' Now Warhawk !' shouted
May ; and the old horse cleared everything and was off
again on the other side as quick as a rabbit. Gerty said
nothing, but her spur spoke for her ; and the Hawkstone
division flew up a long stripe of pasture, caught an
open gate, streamed over a wide fallow and small low
hedge, found themselves even with the body of the field,
and saw hounds going like mad three fences beyond
them. Rip was about forty yards ahead of May,
Gertrude steadying her aged and artful mare to come
third : in a few minutes they had drawn forward into
the second flight. A low wall and ditch — the Monk
hardly rises, and the coping flies from his heels ; War-
hawk snorts defiance and clears the still rolling stones,
Gerty laughs as she lets out Redrose to do likewise.
' Catch 'em if you can] roars Wharfedale, ahead, in-
dulging in a singular and most inharmonious perform-

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

359

ance on his little horn, for which Reresby, contending
with his puller, gravely rebukes him between his teeth.
Two ploughs, divided by bank and double ditch, are
taken at a steadier pace ; the hounds turn a little in
Rip's favour, he lets the eager black go, seeing May
rather near him, and crashes out a line of his own
through the old rotten fence which succeeds. They will
soon be in the larger pastures, and here, as they sight
a sort of laid fence with a well-known deep brook on
the other side, the Vicar, not unscandalised, hears two
of the sweetest voices in England begin gravely to sing
— ' Wings to waft me over.'

' Thirteen stone wants them worse than you,' he says
to himself ; anyhow he sees the huntsman go first and
fast at it, not touching a leaf — then Wharfedale, equally
without apparent change in the obstacle — Reresby
makes a hole and a splash, and the next man is in it.
There is another place above, and Rip sees two men
just over, and a third in the act of refusing. The black
tears by, driven by spur and knee and all the steam
his rider can put on ; he is through and over with a
scramble, and May is almost upon him, for Warhawk's
monkey is raised indeed ; Gerty follows, and the re-
fuser comes well contented after her, in and out.

Then came two miles or so of something very like
happiness. Small flying fences on grass or fallow ;
hounds are racing, almost mute, with heads in the air ;
the horses are lathered, but still pull hard. Long swells
of ridge-and-furrow field roll and flow under the soft
muffled sound of the flying hoofs : it is like being at sea
to glide up and down so fast over the ribs of the long
gray wolds. Gerty draws up to May, and says she shall
be sea-sick ; May laughs, and holds Warhawk back ;
but her arms are getting tired. As for Charley, he is

36o

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

sailing away on Catty, well by himself to the left, in a
field abreast of the hounds, with which relative position
t' owd mare is tolerably satisfied. It is delight, and they
know it, and burst joy's grape against discerning palates.
The rhythmic gallop is like a song of songs — there is no
feeling of fatigue, scarce of exertion — they rest on their
' drinkers of the wind ' — they know the delight of the stork
and the swallow, the eagle's heart is as their heart, and
the soul of the horse goes into their bright blood. The
Vicar's has dropped, in a thin line, from a briar-cut on
his cheek, but he has never felt it, and it is drying fast
with health and heat. They are all fey, in fact. Fate is
ready for them, and they care not.

'Yonder he goes!' cries Charley from afar to Rip,
pointing to something little more than a field before the
hounds, who are racing venomously silent. It is all
racing now, and the girls' blood boils like the men's.
They are all too near each other. Gerty's light weight
brings her forward in spite of herself ; May is nearly two
stone lighter than the Vicar, and Warhawk has bored
at her soft hands, till she lets him go for very weari-
ness. Thus far, Rip has scarcely moved on the black,
and his strong loins enable him to sit as lightly as twelve-
seven can sit ; but the horse is at the top of his work.
Sir John has got behind from a fall, and is now coming
through his horses in the central division in a way likely
to expose him to another. Wharfedale and the hunts-
man, with Reresby and Charley in attendance, the first
whip, a flying doctor and ditto cornet, are the first flight ;
and with them is a Dale farmer well known to May, by
brown coat and boots, hunting-cap and white hair, and
square immovable seat on his raking chestnut colt. Rip
is about fifty yards behind, and Warhawk comes tearing
up as he takes a momentary pull at the Monk. May

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36l

gallops by his side awhile, panting, brilliant, tender,
fierce, matchless.

' I must let the old man go,' she said ; c he will have
it ; there's Mark Harrison, I can follow him.'

'All right. I think the little horse will stay at this,
but I can't drive him out of his stride now ; this can't
last for ever.'

Gerty steadies Redrose, and still follows the Vicar :
they are rising to the higher level of the dale, and walls
begin to alternate with big gnarled thorn fences. The
hounds are in the same field with the old travelling fox,
whose lightening fur tells a tale of other 'days.' The
pace has been too good for him ; he falls back at the
opposite wall, and runs along it. They view him through
a hole ; and oh, that sharp cry of sudden supreme trium-
phant hate, joy and anguish of canine delight. Wharfe-
dale and Charley knock about a rood of wall down as
they top it side by side ; and are just in time to see
grim Tarquin (who has sulked in the pack all the season,
and ever since the late master rated him), rush out in
front of all, and roll his fox over by himself, cracking his
back in a moment. He was a good 'un. He is un-
conscious, and his end is pieces.

'Whoo'h '

What stays Wharfedale's great voice,and makes Charles
turn and rush back on Catapult, sick and trembling in
his saddle, but flying the wall again as if he had as many
spare necks as the Hydra ?

This is what they saw two fences off, all so fear-
fully quick:— Mark Harrison's colt, hard-pressed for
the first time, has just refused ; and now puts his foot
in a hole at the supremely wrong moment, just before

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OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

taking off, as the old yeoman leans back, struggling
to get him up at the only weak place in an old black-
thorn fence. He blunders into it, catches his forefeet,
turns a neat somerset, — and is on his back, appealing
with all four feet in the air to the unpropitious heavens,
and well clear of old Mark, who is quite used to it,
and has shot off exactly at the right time. . . .

But not on the right side ; for May is tired out, and
Warhawk, nose down, will have it after him. Too near
to think of — May will be right on her old friend in two
seconds. Not so ; she will die first, or set her life against
his. All her great strength comes back for a moment;
she wrenches the old horse to her left with both hands,
her spur is in him, and he has to take it sideways.
The thorn stumps are five feet ; he can hardly rise at
them ; it is his last deed, and valiantly he does it. But
his fore and hind feet both catch the dead stubborn
wood : there is a drop below on hard fallow. Ripon
lands far to the right, catches hold of his horse, and
turns short in horror ; and Gerty, in the air behind
him, gives a loud piteous scream of distress, which
no danger of her own could ever have drawn. . . .

May is going over — over — She springs from the saddle,
her knee escapes, and her foot is freed from the stirrup ;
she experiences a general kind of violent bang which she
does not mind, and hears a crash she never heard before ;
a general illumination in her eyes, and a dizzy uncon-
scious moment ... all right . . . she is on her feet without
a mark. . .

But poor Warhawk lies stone dead in great honour :
he has fallen right on his head, and his spine is snapped
like a carrot ; he is stretched out on his side, and his
eye glazes fast. May hides her face in her hands. Ripon
is at her side and off his horse, and takes her in his arms

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

363

full tenderly, for her limbs fail her now. His throat is
stiff, and his eyes are dim, but he is brief and effective.

'Now don't faint, May darling, whatever you do.
Gertrude, please hold the Monk, and don't you cry
either, dear ; where's my flask — have some sherry at
once, May — you're not hurt anywhere? No pain in your
neck, or shoulder, or side?'

' No, I'm quite sound : but the poor old man — he's
dead — and Charles — oh, what will he say!' He comes
up fast, with white lips and wild eyes, and is on one side
of her as old Harrison, who has knocked all the oxygen
out of his venerable body, comes up on the other to tell
her she has saved his life.

'Hullo!' says Charley, intensely relieved, and seeing
it all at a glance. ' Why, t' ard un 's doon for. Poor
old Warhawk — you're none the worse, May, dear ; not
now at all events — here's all the field coming. Would
you please take off the side-saddle and put it on Cata-
pult, Harrison?' he said, as he jumped down and took
charge of May, who leant against him, quiet and very
pale.

' You must ride home directly, you poor dear thing,'
said the Vicar ; ' don't let Flora be frightened.'

' Ah yes, I ought to have thought of that,' said May,
low and hurriedly. ' O Charley, do forgive me — it all
came so quick, and I couldn't help Warhawk's getting
so near Mark.' She shewed her bridle-hand all bruised
and cut with the reins.

'You— old — customer — thank God j<??/'re safe,' he
said, his own coolness vanishing fast. ' No, I don't
exactly want to destroy you at present — O dear love — '
he said with eyes all fire and tears, such as she had
never seen before in him or any man. She could
hardly stand, and wept quietly and fast, while he

364

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

changed the saddles with trembling hands. His own
he gave Harrison to take up to his farm, which was
within a mile. Then he took the snaffle from poor War-
hawk's mouth for the last time, and kissed the dead
head he had fondled many a day. It was sad to stroke

' The raven mane that daily
With pats and fond caresses '

he and his love had twined and played with. And May
knelt down and put her cheek against the soft muzzle
which had so often rubbed and kissed her after its
fashion. She felt as if her heart would break somehow,
but there were men all round, and she dared not give
way. Catapult pushed her with her nose, asking to be
mounted.

' Give me your foot, dear, and ride home with Ger-
trude. Mark will lend me something to get back on, and
Jack and we two will come after you. Don't stay long
at the farm, but let 's get home. I declare it 's four
o'clock, and ten miles from Hawkstone at least.'

They got into a cart-track, and from that into the
dale road : the horses were quiet enough now, and Gerty
held May's hand all the way to the farm in silence.
There was not time to tell all the story to Mrs. Har-
rison, and they remounted and trotted homewards along
the darkening dale, with few and quiet words. The
reaction from happiness to deadly peril was grave to
them all.

'You don't feel too cold, or feverish, do you, May
dear?' Charles asked.

' No, you anxious parent, so good to me ; I don't
seem able to feel anyhow except dull and sorry. It was
a great escape, and one ought to be so thankful — but '

' May, my dear,' quoth the Vicar, ' as in some sense a

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

365

director of yours, I won't have you feel anything more
till you've had your dinner, a long night's rest, and
breakfast to-morrow. You're here, and our own still —
that's enough to give thanks for. Let's trot on a bit
with Gertrude.'

' Hard beggar, Ripon, after all : ' said Sir Jack to
Charles, as they rode on behind. ' Did you see old
Harrison ? he burst out crying in the quietest way when
she kissed old Warhawk — and, by Guy, I had a great
dispositions to do it too, like Sir Hugh Evans.'

' Ah, t' Vicar has had a good deal in his time, and he
has to do with real rough poverty-griefs — he only thinks
of what's to be done.'

' Or of what's to be borne when there's nothing to be
done, — what's that he wrote? —

' The fountains of our eyes are dry
With care and labour all the years,'

— besides, you know, — what a go it was ! ' . . .

' Good ' said Charles, dropping his reins, so that

Mark's other colt, his mount for the time, jumped off all
his four legs, ' whatever would it . . . ?'

' Oh Jerusalem,' said the Squire under his breath,
dropping his head forward and clasping his hands ; and
they said nothing more for a long time.

The horses began to flounder and 'bite' a little on the
dark road among the Hawkstone woods, but in due time
they saw the outer lodge lights ; and hastened up among
ghostly trees and frosted fern, and the shade of deep
covers, and broad moonlights, glittering and dewy on
open lawns. The big house was all glancing and alive,
and Flora's tall figure was waiting in the porch, with
Susan Milton, in pretty white-and-green dinner-dress,
with her.

366

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

' Come, how late you are ! nobody hurt, I see, but I
know something has happened. Tell me at once, Jack.'

' Poor Warhawk's done for, and May has had a very
narrow escape indeed,' he answered. ' Here she is without
a mark — that's all now — I vote we don't have it out
till after dinner. She will have to tell the story often
enough for the next six months ; — she risked her own
life to save Mark Harrison, and he's mad about it.'

' No other casualty ? ' asked Flora, pour totite reponse.
' Well, May, it's nearly seven. Dinner in three quarters
of an hour. Now, do listen, dear : don't go lying down,
or shutting yourself up, or trying to live on tea and
tears. Champagne is expedient after the day and the
shaking you've had, and the luncheon you haven't had ;
so go and put on white raiment, or something. I'll send
Beecroft to you at once ; and come and sit in my room
after, till dinner, and talk to me or not as you like. I
won't have you low hungry people standing about here :
Jack may come and tell me what he knows ; Charles and
Vicar, do you know you're very muddy? — and should
you both mind going up the back stairs V

'Not the least, Floy,' and they clinked up to their
large attic chambers — comfortable large low dens with
blazing fires — where they skinned off wet boots and
leathers, and assumed the funereal garments of modern
festivity.

Dinner was very quiet, for everybody was luxuriously
tired, excepting Susan, who was dreaming a little dream
of her own happily enough. Hobbes had sent her a
letter that morning, which required many perusals, and
could only be answered with May's and Flora's aid.
She chatted away with Gerty, of whom she professed
intense jealousy. It was easy, she said, to bear being
defeated by brunettes ; but a blonde, with her own colour

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

367

of hair, like Miss Crakanthorpe, to come into her country
and beat her, horse, foot, and chignon ; it was too horrid,
and she should have to go, — she did not mention with
whom. May and Flora looked at each other a little, but
conversation went on as usual, about art, politics, novels,
agriculture, and the doings of the local clergy. The
latter were all visited on the Rook, who ate his dinner,
and noddingly condoled with the aggrieved parishioners.
There was but a small party at dinner, and the ladies
vanished early. Then all parts of the run were eagerly
described by all the men at once, except Ripon, who
had gone to sleep with a dried cherry on his fork. He
had to be roused when they came to the catastrophe,
and looked up with that air of intelligent bewilderment,
which fatigued gentlemen seem naturally to assume at
coffee-time after claret. Charles had vanished ; and Sir
John now heard the whole story from end to end again.

' Well, May is as good as she looks ;' he said, ' I say,
will Charles and she settle it now, do you think?'

' Now or never,' said the other, ' It's the thing I care
for most in this world. I dare say they're on the subject
about this time.'

' Shouldn't wonder ; hardly fair though ; May's dead
beat, and he'll run into her in no time ; ought to wait
till after breakfast ; she'll show sport then.'

' I think he'll leave off being too artistic to care. The
stone ideal can hardly look as she looks to-night, or do
what she did.'

Charles had in effect gone off to the library, and there
found Gerty and Susan, who directed him to Flora's
room : they said they rather thought she wanted to see
him. He entered, and found May alone ; white silk,
on a green velvet ottoman ; dark night of hair, cheeks
flushed like faint sunset, eyes starry and fevered. There

368

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

was a look of grief about her, and all his heart went out
to her, once for all, and without return, for ever and
ever.

1 May, darling, you are not ill after all ? '

' No, dear ; only rather battered, and sore all over.'

' It was such a crumpler ! and how one will dream of
it ! We saw it from a distance, you know ; and I left
Wharfedale with the brush in his hand. You go terribly
hard, May — I shan't be myself for weeks ; — and then last
night!* Don't be so fierce any more, dear; — I've been
very wrong, but — ' His voice grew husky.

' Ah me, poor old Warhawk ; perhaps it would have
been better if '

She broke down altogether into utter weeping, and
Charles rather thinks he did the same, or something
to that effect — for ever so long. - But the look of her
was altogether too much for him ; and he took her in
his arms and swore he would never, never, never leave
her — passionately, over and over again, hiding his face
long on her shoulder, as she put her cheek down against
his. Nor did they ever part again ; nor will they, till
death accomplishes the work he nearly did that day.

' Now, it's no use you two coming to tea,' said Flora,
'because it's cold poison by this time, and your nerves
can't stand it. Do you know we're all going to bed ?'
There — she kissed May with effusion. ' Let them just see
you before they go — both of you. Charles will allow
embraces, considering all things.'

May and Charles never did things like anybody else,
and they declined the regular sort of wedding-presents

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

369

as well as they could. But they got Holderness and
Wharfedale and many friends to join, and gave a heavy
sum themselves, and contrived to buy a grand set of caril-
lons and bells for the great tower of Rothercliffe Minster.
And May's six months were so well employed by an
appreciating Dean and Chapter, that her bells played
Mendelssohn's march on her wedding day. All the city
turned out, and half the colliers round came in, to hear
those chimes, and see the beauty who gave them — known
already for good works and alms-deeds. There were
tears and testimonials to an appalling extent ; the former
general and genuine, and from pretty hard eyes, male
and female.

They are married ; and their bells ring on still
through the year, with the lulling power which seems
to preach rest, over and through all the din of a great
city. They left a request for certain tunes at certain
times, which has hitherto pleased both authorities and
people well. There is the Old Hundredth both morning
and evening ; or the swell of Handel's 104th Psalm ;
and through Lent the sad Franciscan chant, that
prays the Lord to hear and save. But once in the
year the bells break out impatiently, and will not be
restrained. Wave after wave that day, the rolling
foam of melody, the rapid outbreaking notes that
tell of joy beyond control or order, almost beyond
endurance, stream forth and rise and fall, and echo
and re-echo, and are tossed on the glad winds mile
after mile to far-away hills, over city and river; peal
on peal and wreath on wreath, as swollen with deep
thunder and mellow rain, the torrent of their pas-
sionate fugues spreads all abroad. It is the remem-
brance of a day of joy, when many rich and poor met
together before God, giving thanks for many things;

B b

370

OUR SKETCHING CLUB.

and not least, because they saw before them the two
most beautiful who ever were knit together in Rother-
cliffe Minster, or in all the North country. They do
well to ring out the wedding march of Theseus and
Hippolyta ; for no pair more like them ever trod English
ground.

Warhawk lies in Hawkstone Holt, under the shade
of a young birch-tree. The four ladies of our tale
correspond perennially out of inkstands fashioned from
his hoofs, and wear chains woven of his old mane and
tail. Otherwise he was buried as he fell, with honour
and heavy sorrow.

THE END

INDEX.

Amateur, 64. See Professional.
Amateur Drawing, no real meaning

in the term, 3, 10, 33.
Anatomy, difference between Animal

and Vegetable as subject for art,

137.

Angelo, Michael, 86, 97, 165.
Arches, 267; Roman Arch, 81, 82.
Arnolfo, 97.

Art, Religious, in what sense, 307,

313-15.
Assisi, 265.

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table on
Trees, 138.

Bacon, 87.

Balance and Symmetry, 273. See

Composition, 264.
Baroque Renaissance, 97.
Bellini, John, 97.
Black, use of as a colour, 257.
Blake, 97.

Blocking-out foliage, 134.
Body-colour, after Turner, 326 seqq.
Botticelli, 97.
Bramante, 97.
Brett, 134.

Bridges, artistic theory of, 266, 277.
Bringing together, 309.
Brunelleschi, 97.

Bryce, Prof., on Renaissance, 79.
Buschetto, architect of Cathedral of

Pisa, 97.
Busti, Agostino, 97.
Byzantine and Old-Greek, 81.

Calame, 136.
Catacombs, 93, 99-101.

Chalk, to be used from the shoulder,
Exercise I, p. 66.

Character, 131 ; infinite variety in
view of, 139, 200; of trees, 134,
202 ; in Turner, 216; connexion
of in art and morals, 217 seqq.
See Composition.

Chase, the, how far capable of sup-
plying fit subjects for art, 195.

Christian ornament, traditional sub-
jects, 100.

Cinque Cento, 76.

Colour, scales of, for woodland and
water, 199 seqq.; for moorland,
54; uncertainties of, 241 ; blend-
ing, ib. ; stones and waves, 142 ;
bloom in, 244.

Colour, local, 17, 253; distant and
retiring, 254 ; prevails over form
when intense, 255, 256.

Colours, mixed hues, &c, 54, 68, 72,
119, 127, 169, 172, 225; laying
on, 241-4, 261 seqq., 307 seqq. ;
body-colours, 327.

Composition, 205, 258 seqq. See
Character.

Consistency, Law of, 262, 286. See
Composition.

Continuity, Law of, 265, 274; dis-
tinct from Monotony, 275 ; in
Turner's Ehrenbreitstein, 277.

Continuity of Art-History lost sight
of in disputes of modern schools,
99.

Contrast. See Composition.
Contrast and Harmony, 286 seqq.

Moderation in Contrast, 290.
Corot, 140.

372

INDEX.

Course of Landscape Drawing, 65,
130, 173, 198, 200:

1. Outlines : Leaves and Tree-

trunks.

2. Light and Shade : Jam-pot, &c.

3. Use of the Brush : Skies and

Clouds, &c.

4. Trees and Vegetation, from

Ruskin's Elements.
Trees and Vegetation, with re-
ference to Diirer and Turner.

5. Study of Character.

6. Study of Colour.

7. Study of Composition.
Cox, 140.

Critic, qualities of, 2, 4, 69 ; impor-
tance of his being a workman,
139-

Curvature, 277 seqq. ; moderation
in, 280 ; wings, 281 ; good and
bad curves, 282.

Curvature. See Composition, 262,
267, 269 ; good and bad, 270.

Curves, 133, 134, 202, 205.

Dance of Death. See Holbein, Re-
naissance.

Dickens, Charles, 93.

Distance of the eye from Drawing,
310. 33o.

Drawing, light and shade, 18-24.

See Course of Drawing.
Dress and Decoration, 40, 105 seqq.,

J59> 259> 26°-
Di'irer, 84, 91, 97; woodcuts from,
Figs. 11, 12, 13.

Education, notion of, 41.
Eggs, study of, 66, 75.
Ehrenbreitstein (Turner), 259 seqq.
Ehrenbreitstein and Coblentz, 268
seqq.

Evenness of finish, 50.
Examples of contrasted hues in
nature, 300-302.

Figures in Landscape, 1 7 ; Figure
drawing compared with Land-
scape, 64.

Finish, 304 ; necessary limits of, 305 ;
examples, 306. Dependent on lav/
of Principality, 308.

French Landscape, 122.

Garret and Clarke in Oxford, 91.

Giotto, 267.

Glass, graduated, use of, 26 ; gra-
duated for portraits, 64.
Good Shepherd, 193.
Goodwin, 134.

Gothic Architecture, domestic as well

as ecclesiastical, 99.
Gothic like Greek in study of nature,

81.

Gothicism and classicalism, 99.
Gradation, exercises in, 67-73.
Graham on landscape, 64.
Grass, 207.

Gray-paper for body-colour, 326.

Grays, Cloud, &c, 67-73.

Greek Art, Attic and Byzantine, 81 ;

Literature revived, 80, 95 ; study

of nature, 80, 96, 99.

Hamerton, 63.

Harding's Trees, 130-135; reasons
for use of, 132.

Harmony, 286 seqq. : by contrast —
examples, 300 ; by equal tone,
303 ; of Finish, 304-6.

Hatton's Trees, 130, 168, 198, 209;
Photographs, 130, 140.

Heathen work in Christian ceme-
teries, 99.

Heine, on artistic envy, 1 1 .

Hogarth, 97.

Holbein, 80-98.

Hue and Tint (colour and pitch of

shade), 32.
Hunt, Alfred, 1 34.
Hunt, Holman, 102.

Impressions, momentary, 295.
Inchbold, 134.

Inspiration and new -lights, 297.
Interchange, 287.

Interchange, Law of, 262. See Com-
position.

Jam-pot, study of, 18, 20.

Landseer, 191 seqq.

Laws of Composition, 262.

Leaves, 135.

Liber Studiorum, 17, 130, 207 seqq. ;

copying from, 209 ; lists from,

208 ; examples, 261.
Lights, from light to shade, the

principle of water-colour, 21, 32,

33.120.

INDEX.

373

Lionardo, 84, 237.
Lubke, on Renaissance, 79, 97.
Luther and Holbein, 91.
Luther at Rome, at same time with
Rafael and Michael Angelo, 97.

Masses distinct from Forms, 258.
Measurement by pencil, 28 ; by

heads and waists, 29 ; by squares,

47-

Melancholy of Rivers, 282.
Morality, related to art, 287, 313-15.
Morris and Faulkner, window in

Ch. Ch., Oxford, 300.
Motive of pictures, 261.
Mystery and Organizations 98 seqq. ;

215.

Myths, Hesione, Deucalion, Andro-
meda, 100.

Nature, distinct from Object, 48 ;
Instructive power, 25.

Oil-painting, 26.

Opaque and transparent, 31.

Orcagna, 97, 98.

Outline distinct from Form, 135;

Mapping out before colour, 117.
Oxford, mercenary education, 6, 8.

Pater, Studies on Renaissance, 80.
Perspective, 26-31 ; of leaves, 134,

135-
Perugino, 265.
Photographs, 130, 140.
Pisano, Niccola, 79 seqq. ; 97.
Professional and Amateur, 49, 64,

65, 67.

Radiation — Harding, 133; Turner,
134, 205, 215; law of, 262, 283
seqq., in boughs, 284.

Ravenna, Mosaics, 101.

Realism and idealism, 49.

Reformation and Renaissance, 83,87.

Regnault, 292.

Renaissance and kindred terms, 77
seqq.; Gothic and Greek spirit
meeting; really extending from
twelfth to sixteenth centuries,
and periods of, marked by great
names and events, 97; connected
with Reformation through Hol-
bein, 88, 98, 10 1. New mediaeval
renaissance and reaction, 102.

Repetition, 272.

Repetition, law of, 205, 262, 263 ;
in idea and colour, 263.

Rome, Mosaics, 101.

Ruskin, 15, 20; Venetian Renais-
sance, 82, 91 seqq.; 98, 136, 170,
180, 186, 187, 201, 225, 227, 267,
280, and all Illustrations.

Samnicheli, 98.
Sansovino, 98.

Sarcophagi and Tombs, 99-101.

Savonarola, 84, 85.

Science in Renaissance period not

antagonistic to Religion, 89, 96 ;

Scientific and artistic feeling, 139,

166.

Selection and omission, 116.
Sensation, def., 254.
Sentiment and the Practical, 220.
Shadows, 212 seqq.
Shield-bearers, testudo, &c, 136.
Shield-builders, 136, 138.
Sketching against time, 210, seqq.
Sketching-Club, rules of, 1, 3, 16.
Sketching : meanings, 25 ; sugges-
tions, 28.
Stones, 121.

Study, distinct from sketch, 48.

Subjects, common, 49.

Subjects : Bird, 24 ; common, 49 ;
Sea and Moorland, 54 ; Woodland
and pool, 115: Choice of, 116;
avoiding sunshine, 118; sugges-
tiveness, 123; Oxford, 142 ; birch
trunk, 241 ; girl's head with horse,
245 ; See Colour.

Sunshine, 21, 118, 215.

Sunshine and Light distinguished,
&c, 21.

Suppression of detail like judicious

use of asterisks, 123.
Symmetry and Balance, 273. See

Composition, 269.
System. See Course.

Tempera and oil-painting, 26.
Tennyson, 118.
Testudo, 136.

Tint and Hue (pitch of shade and
variety of colour), 32 ; to calculate
depth of tint, 32.

Tintoret, 97, 263.

Titian, 97 ; Titianesque dress, 260.

374

INDEX.

Trees, drawing and colour, 166, 124,
129, 141, 165 seqq. ; 272 seqq. ;
distinction between study of vege-
table and human anatomy, 137.

Tree-drawing, elementary, 129 ; con-
tinued necessity for, ib. ; reference
to modern painters, 131 ; Course
of, 117, 137.

Turner, Combe Martin and Coteaux
des Mauves, 20 ; Perspective, 31 ;
bough from, 134, 137, 139; Liber
Studiorum, 17, 208, 213; Ehren-
breitstein, 259 ; Suggestiveness,
example 0^263; Pembroke Castle,
seqq. ; Calais Sands, 265 ; In Swit-
zerland and at home, 269 ; on
gray paper, 257, 326.

Unity, 259, 263 seqq. See Composi-
tion.

Velasquez, 97.

Vulgarities of contrast, &c, 299.

Water-colour, principles of, 31 ; from
light to dark, 33 ; edges, 33.

Water-painting. See Subjects.

White, a relative term, 21; of light
or local, 22; Chinese, 23, 31;
use of as a colour, 257.

Wings, 281.

Woltmann on Renaissance, 79.

Zenone, St. (Verona), 81.
Zermatt, 288.

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vols. Crown 8vo. 21s.

' ' The work of a clever, cultivated person, wielding a practised pen.
The characters are drawn with force and precision, the dialogue
is easy : the whole book displays powers of pathos and humour,
and a shrewd knowledge of men and things." — Spectator.

Arnold. — the complete poetical works.

Vol. I. Narrative and Elegiac Poems. Vol. II. Dramatic
and Lvric Poems. By Matthew Arnold. Extra fcap. 8vo.
Price 6s. each.

The two volumes comprehend the First and Second Series of the
Poems, and the New Poems. " Thyrsis is a poem of perfect
delight, exquisite in grave tenderness of reminiscence, rich in breadth
of western light, breathing full the spirit of gray and ancient Ox-
ford."— Saturday Review.

Atkinson. — AN ART TOUR TO THE NORTHERN
CAPITALS OF EUROPE. By J. Beavington Atkinson.
8vo. 12s.

" We can highly recommend it ; not only for the valuable informa-
tion it gives on the special subjects to which it is dedicated, but also
for the interesting episodes of travel which are interwoven with, and
lighten, the weightier matters of judicious and varied criticism on
art and artists in northern capitals." — Art Journal.

Baker.— cast up by the sea ; or, the adven-
tures OF NED GREY. By Sir Samuel Baker, M.A.,
F.R.G.S. With Illustrations by Huard. Fifth Edition. Crown
8vo. cloth gilt. 7-r. 6d.

"An admirable tale of adventure, of marvellous incidents, wild
exploits, and terrible denouemejits." — Daily News. "A story of
adventure by sea and land in the good old style." — Pall Mall
Gazette.

Baring-Gould.— Works by S. Baring-Gould, M.A. :—

IN EXITU ISRAEL. An Historical Novel. Two Vols. 8vo. its.

"Full of the most exciting incidents and ably portrayed characters,
10,000, 9, 1874. a

BELLES LETTRES.

Baring-Gould — continued.

abounding in beautifully attractive legends, and relieved by descrip-
tions fresh, vivid, and truth-like." — Westminster Review.
LEGENDS OF OLD TESTAMENT CHARACTERS, from the
Talmud and other sources. Two vols. Crown 8vo. i6j.
Vol. I. Adam to Abraham. Vol. II. Melchizedek to Zachariah.
" These volumes contain much that is very strange, and, to the
ordinary English reader, very novel." — Dailv News.

Barker. — Works by Lady Barker :—

t(Lady Barker is an unrivalled story-teller." — GUARDIAN.
STATION LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND. New and Cheaper
Edition. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d.

'* We have never read a more truthful or a pleasanter little book." —
Athenaeum.
SPRING COMEDIES. Stories.
Contents : — A Wedding Story — A Stupid Story — A Scotch Story
— A Man's Story. Crown 8vo. Js. 6d.

ttLady Barker is endowed with a rare and delicate gift for nar-
rating stories, — she has the faculty of throwing even into her
printed narrative a soft and pleasant tone, which goes far to make
the reader think the subject or the matter immaterial, so long as the
author will go on telling stories for his benefit?' — Athenaeum.
STORIES ABOUT:— With Six Illustrations. Third Edition.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

This volume contains several entertaining stories about Monkeys,
Jamaica, Camp Life, Dogs, Boys, 6°<r. "There is not a tale in
the book which can fail to please children as well as their elders."
— Pall Mall Gazette.
A CHRISTMAS CAKE IN FOUR QUARTERS. With Illustra-
tions by Jellicoe. Second Edition. Ex. fcap. 8vo. cloth gilt. /^.dd.
" Contains just the stories that children should be told. * Christmas
Cake'' is a delightful Christmas book." — GLOBE.
RIBBON STORIES. With Illustrations by C. O. Murray.
Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth gilt. 4s. 6d.
" We cannot too highly commend. It is exceedingly happy and original
in the plan, and the graceful fancies of its pages, merry and pathetic
turns, will be found the best reading by girls of all ages, and by
boys too." — Times.
SYBIL'S BOOK. Illustrated by S. E. Waller. Second Edition.
Globe 8vo. gilt. 4s. 6d.

" Another of Lady Barker's delightful stories, and one of the most
thoroughly original books for girls that has been written for many
years. Grown-up readers will like it quite as much as young people,
and will even better understand the rarity of such simple, natural,
and unaffected writing .... That no one can read the story
without interest is not its highest praise, for no one ought to be able
to lay it down without being the better girl or boy, or man or tvoman,
for the reading of it. Lady Barker has never turned her fertile
and fascinating pen to better account, and for the sake of all readers
we wish * Sybil's Book's a ivide success."- Times.

BELLES LETT RES.

Bell.— ROMANCES AND MINOR POEMS. Ey Henry
Glassford Bell. Fcap. 8vo. 6s.
"Full of life and genius." — Court Circular.

Besant. — studies in early French poetry. By

Walter Besant, M.A. Crown 8vo. Ss. 6d.

The present work aims to afford infor?nation and direction touching
the early efforts of France in poetical literature. " In one mode'
rately sized volume he has contrived to introduce us to the very
best, if not to all of the early French poets." — Athenaeum.

Betsy % Lee ; A FO'C'S'LE YARN. Extra fcap. 8vo. 3*. 6d.
11 There is great vigour and much pathos in this poem" — Mornino
Post.

" We can at least say that it is the work of a true poet." — Athe»
n^eum.

Black (W.)— Works by W. Black, Author of "A Daughter of
Heth."

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON.
Seventh and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. Also, Illustrated
by S. E. Waller, 8vo. cloth gilt. ios. 6d.

* i The book is a really charming description of a thousand English
landscapes and of the e?nergencies and the fun and the delight of a
picnic journey throtigh them by a party determined to enjoy them-
selves, and as well matched as the pair of horses which drew the
phaeton they sat in. The real charm and purpose of the book is
its open-air life among hills arid dales." — Times. " The great
charm of Mr. Black's book is that there is nothing hackneyed
about it, nothing overdrawn, — all is bright and lifelike." — MORNING
Post.

A PRINCESS OF THULE. Three vols. Sixth and cheaper
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

The Saturday Review says : — " A novel ivhich is both romantic
and natural, which has much feeling, without any touch of
mawkishness, which goes deep into character without any suggestion
of painful analysis — this is a rare ge??i to find amongst thedibris of
current literature, and this, or nearly this, Mr. Black has given
us in the ' Princess of Thule. ' " " It has, for one thing, the great
charm of novelty. . . . There is a picturesqueness in all that
Mr. Black writes, but scarcely even in the 1 Adventures of a
Phaeton ' are there the freshness and sweetness and perfect sense
of natural beauty we find in this last book."- — Pall Mall
Gazette. "A beautiful and nearly perfect story." — Spec-
tator.

Borland Hall. — By the Author of ' ' Olrig Grange." Crown
8vo. Js.

Brooke.— THE FOOL OF QUALITY; or, THE HISTORY
OF HENRY, EARL OF MORELAND. By Henry Brooke.
Newly revised, with a Biographical Preface by the Rev. Charles
Kingsley, M.A., Rector of Eversley. Crown 8vo. 6s.

BELLES LETT RES.

Broome. — THE STRANGER OF SERIPHOS. A Dramatic
Poem. By Frederick Napier Broome. Fcap. 8vo. $s.

Founded on the Greek legend of Danae and Perseus, f ' Grace and
beauty of expression are Mr. Broome's characteristics ; and these
qualities are displayed in many passages." — Athenaeum. " The
story is rendered with consmnmate beauty.'" — LITERARY CHURCH-
MAN.

Buist.— BIRDS, THEIR CAGES AND THEIR KEEP : Being
a Practical Manual of Bird-Keeping and Bird-Rearing. By K. A.
Buist. With Coloured Frontispiece and other Illustrations.
Crown 8vo. $s.

Bumand. — MY TIME, AND WHAT I'VE DONE WITH IT.
By F. C. Burnand. Crown 8vo. 6.?.

Cabinet Pictures.— oblong folio, price 42J.

Contents i — ■ tf Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" and " The Fighting
Temeraire" by J. M. W. Turner ; " Crossing the Bridge" by
Sir W. A. Callcott ; " The Cornfield" by John Constable ; and
" A Landscape" by Birket Foster. The Daily News says
of them, " They are very beautifidly executed, and might be
framed and hung up on the wall, as creditable substitutes for the
originals."

CABINET PICTURES. A Second Series.

Containing : — " The Baths of Caligula " and " The Golden Bough,"
Iby J. W. M. Turner; " The Little Brigand," by T. Uwins ;
" The Lake of Lucerne," by Percival Skelton ; " Evening Rest "
by E. M. Wimperis. Oblong folio. 42J.

Carroll. — Works by "Lewis Carroll:"—

ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. With Forty-
two Illustrations by Tenniel. 46th Thousand. Crown 8vo.
cloth. 6s.

A GERMAN TRANSLATION OF THE SAME. With Ten-

NIEl's Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt. 6s.
A FRENCH TRANSLATION OF THE SAME. With Ten-

niel's Illustrations. Crown 8vo. gilt. 6s.
AN ITALIAN TRANSLATION OF THE SAME. By T.
P. Rossette. With Tenniel's Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s.
" Beyond question supreme among modern books for childrejt." —
Spectator. " One of the choicest and most charming books
ever composed for a child's reading." — Pall Mall Gazette.
"A very pretty and highly original book, sure to delight the
little world of wondering minds, and which may well please
those who have unfortunately passed the years of wondering." —
Times.

THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE
FOUND THERE. With Fifty Illustrations by Tenniel. Crown
8vo. gilt. 6s. 35th Thousand.

" Quite as rich in humorous whims of fantasy, quite as laughable

BELLES LETTRES.

in its queer incidents, as loveable for its pleasant spirit and grace-
ful manner, as the wondrous tale of Alice's former adventures. " —
Illustrated London News. " If this had been given to the
world first it would have enjoyed a success at least equal to * Alice
in Wonderland.-1 " — Standard.

Children's (The) Garland, FROM THE BEST POETS.
Selected and arranged by Coventry Patmore. New Edition.
With Illustrations by J. Lawson. Crown 8vo. Cloth extra. 6s.

Christmas Carol (A). Printed in Colours from Original
Designs by Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Crispin, with Illuminated
Borders from MSS. of the 14th and 15th Centuries. Imp. 4to. cloth
inlaid, gilt edges, £3 3^. Also a Cheaper Edition, 21s.
"A most exquisitely got up volume. Legend, carol, and text art
preciously enshrined in its emblazotied pages, and the illuminated
borders are far and away the best example of their art we have seen
this Christmas. The pictures and borders are harmonious in their
colouring, the dyes are brnliant without being raw, and the volume
is a trophy of colour-printing. The binding by Bur 71 is in the very
best taste." — Times.

Church (A. J.)— UOKM TENNYSONIANiE, Sive Eclogse
e Tennysono Latine redditse. Cura A. J. Church, A.M.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s.

" Of Mr. Church? s ode we may speak in almost unqualified praise,
and the same ?nay be said of the contributions generally." — Pall
Mall Gazette.

Clough (Arthur Hugh).— the POEMS AND PROSE
REMAINS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. With a
Selection from his Letters and a Memoir. Edited by his Wife.
With Portrait. Two Vols. Crown 8vo. 21s.
u Taken as a whole" the SPECTATOR says, " these volumes cannot
fail to be a lasting monument of one of the most original men of
our age." 11 Full of charming letters from Lome," says the
Morning Star, fro?n Greece, pom America, from Oxford,
and from Rugby. "

THE POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, sometime Fellow
of Oriel College, Oxford. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 6s.
From the higher mind of cultivated, all-questioning, but still conser-
vative England, in this our puzzled generation, we do not know
of any utterance in literature so characteristic as the poems of
Arthur Hugh Clough." — Fraser's Magazine.

Clunes. — THE STORY OF PAULINE: an Autobiography.
By G. C. Clunes. Crown 8vo. 6s.

" Both for vivid delineation of character and fluent lucidity of style,
1 The Story of Pauline' is in the first rank of modern fiction." —
Globe. ((Told with delightful vivacity, thorough appreciation of
life, and a co?nplete knowledge of character." — Manchester
Examiner.

BELLES LETTRES.

Collects of the Church of England, with a beautifully

Coloured Floral Design to each Collect, and Illuminated Cover.

Crown 8vo. 12$. Also kept in various styles of morocco.

" This is beyond question" the Art Journal says, " the most
beautiful book of the season. " The Guardian thinks it "a suc-
cessful attempt to associate in a natural and unforced manner the
flowers of our fields and gardens with the course of the Christian
year.11

COX.— RECOLLECTIONS OF OXFORD. By G. V. Cox, M.A.,
late Esquire Bedel and Coroner in the University of Oxford.
Second and cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
The Times says that it %twill pleasantly recall in many a country
parsonage the memory of youthful days. "

Culmshire Folk.-— By Ignotus. Three vols. Crown 8vo. Sl$.6d.

" Its sparkling pleasantness, its drollery, its shrewdness, the charming
little bits of character which frequently come in, its easy liveliness,
and a certain chattiness which, while it is never vulgar, brings the
writer very near, and makes one feel as if the story were being told
in lazy confidence in an hour of idleness by a man who, while
thoroiighly good-natured, is strongly humorous, and has an ever-
present perception of the absurdities of people and things." — Spec-
tator.

Dante.— DANTE'S COMEDY, THE HELL. Translated by
W. M. Rossetti. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. $$,

" The aim of this translation of Dante may be summed up in one
word — Liter ality. To follow Dante sentence for sentence, line
for line, word for word — neither more nor less, has been my
strenuous endeavour." — Author's Preface.

Days Of Old ; STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH HISTORY.
By the Author of "Ruth and her Friends." New Edition.
i8mo. cloth, extra. 2s. 6d.

"Lull of truthful and charming historic pictures, is everywhere vital
with moral and religious principles, and is written with a brightness
of description, and with a dramatic force in the representation of
character, that have made, and will always make, it one of the
greatest favourites with reading boys." — Nonconformist.

Deane. — MARJORY. By Milly Deane. Third Edition.
With Frontispiece and Vignette. Crown 8vo. qs. 6d.
The Times of September I ith says it is "A very touching story, full
of promise for the after career of the authoress. It is so tenderly
drawn, and so full of life and grace, that any attempt to analyse
or describe it falls sadly short of the original. We will venture
to say that few readers of any natural feeling or sensibility will
take up ''Marjory ' without reading it through at a sitting, and we
hope we shall see more stories by the same ha7td." The Morning
Post calls it "A deliciously fresh and charming little love story."

De Vere.— THE INFANT BRIDAL, and other Poems. By
Aubrey De Vere. Fcap. 8vo. *js. 6d.

BELLES LETTRES.

"Mr. De Vere has taken his place among the poets of the day.
Pure and tender feeling, and that polished restraint of style which
is called classical, are the charms of the volume." — Spectator.

Doyle (Sir F. H.)— LECTURES ON POETRY, delivered
before the University of Oxford in 1868. By Sir Francis
Hastings Doyle, Professor of Poetry in the University of
Oxford. Crown 8vo. ^s. 6d.

" Full of thoughtful discrimination and fine insight: the lecture on
i Provincial Poetry ' seems to us singularly true, eloquent, and
instructive."— SPECTATOR.

Estelle Russell.— By the Author of "The Private Life of
Galileo." New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

Full of bright pictures of French life. The English family, whose
fortunes form the main drift of the story, reside mostly in France, but
t/iere are also many English characters and scenes of great interest.
It is certainly the tuork of a fresh, vigorous, and ?nost interesting
writer, with a dash of sarcastic humour which is refreshing and
not too bitter. " We can send our readers to it with confidence*"
— Spectator.

Evans. — BROTHER FABIAN'S MANUSCRIPT, AND
OTHER POEMS. By Sebastian Evans. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. 6s.

" In this volume we have full assurance that he has 1 the vision and
the faculty divine.'' . . . Clever and full of kindly humour." —
Globe.

Evans. — THE CURSE OF IMMORTALITY. By A. Eubule
Evans. Crown 8vo. 6s.

"Never, probably, has the legend of the Wandering Jexv been more
ably and poetically handled. The author writes as a true poet, and
with the skill of a true artist. The plot of this remarkable drama
is not only well contrived, but worked out with a degree of simplicity
and truthful vigour altogether unusual in modern poetry. In fact,
since the 'date of Byron 's 'Cain,' we can scarcely recall any verse
at once so terse, so powerful, and so masterly." — Standard.

Fairy Book. — The Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected and
Rendered anew by the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman."
With Coloured Illustrations and Ornamental Borders by J. E.
Rogers, Author of " Ridicula Rediviva." Crown 8vo. cloth,
extra gilt. 6s. (Golden Treasury Edition. i8mo. 4s. 6d.)
"A delightfotl selection, in a delightful external formS — Spectator.

" A book which will prove delightful to children all the year round."

—Pall Mall Gazette.

Fletcher THOUGHTS FROM A GIRL'S LIFE. By Lucy

Fletcher. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

" The poems are all graceful ; they are marked throughout by an accent
of reality ; the thoughts and emotions are genuine ." — Athenaeum.

Garnett.— IDYLLS AND EPIGRAMS. Chiefly from the Greek
Anthology. By Richard Garnett. Fcap. 8vo. 2s 6d.
"A charming little book. For English readers, Mr. Garnett' 's

BELLES LETTRES.

translations will open a new world of thought" — Westminster
Review.

Gilmore.— STORM WARRIORS J OR, LIFE-BOAT WORK
ON THE GOODWIN SANDS. By the Rev. John Gilmore,
M.A., Rector of Holy Trinity, Ramsgate, Author of "The
Ramsgate Life-Boat," in Macmillaris Magazine. Crown 8vo. 6s.
" The stories, which are said to be literally exact, are more thrilling

than anything in fiction. Mr. Gilmore has done a good work as

well as written a good book." — Daily News.

Gladstone.— JUVENTUS MUNDI. The Gods and Men of the
Heroic Age. By the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P.
Crown 8vo. cloth extra. With Map. 10s. 6d. Second Edition.

"To read these brilliant details" says the Athenaeum, "is like
standing on the Olympian threshold and gazing at the ineffable
brightness within. " According to the Westminster Review, "it
would be difficult to point out a book that contains so much fulness
of knowledge along with so much freshness of perception and
clearness of presentation." q

Gray.— THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GRAY. New
and Enlarged Edition. Edited by Henry Glassford Bell, late
Sheriff of Lanarkshire. Crown 8vo. 6s.

Guesses at Truth.— By Two Brothers. With Vignette
Title and Frontispiece. New Edition, with Memoir. Fcap. 8vo.
6s. Also see Golden Treasury Series.

Halifax.— AFTER LONG YEARS. By M. C. Halifax.
Crown 8vo. ioj\ 6d.

" A story of very unusual merit. The entire story is well conceived,
well written, and well carried out ; and the reader will look
forward with pleasure to meeting this clever author again." —

Daily News. " This is a very pretty, simple love story

The author possesses a very graceful, womanly pen, and tells the
story with a rare tender simplicity which well befits it." —
Standard.

Hamerton.— A PAINTER'S CAMP. Second Edition, revised.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s.

Book I. In England; Book II. In Scotland; Book III. In France.

" These pages, written with infinite spirit and humour, bring into
close rooms, back upon tired heads, the breezy airs of Lancashire
moors and Highland lochs, with a freshness which no recent
novelist has succeeded in preserving." — Nonconformist.

Heaton. — HAPPY SPRING TIME. Illustrated by Oscar
Pletsch. With Rhymes for Mothers and Children. By Mrs.
Charles Heaton. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. -$s. 6d.
" The pictures in this book are capital." — AthenjEUM.

Hervey. — DUKE ERNEST, a Tragedy; and other Poems.
Fcap. 8vo. 6^.

' ' Conceived in pure taste and true historic feeling, and presented with

BELLES LETTRES.

much dramatic force Thoroughly original"— British

Quarterly.

Higginson.— MALBONE: An Oldport Romance. By T. W.
Higginson. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d.

The Daily News says: " Who likes a quiet story, full oj
mature thought, of clear, humorous surprises, of artistic studious
design ? * Mai bone ' is a rare work, possessing these characteristics,
and replete, too, with honest literary effort. "

Hillside Rhymes. — Extra fcap. 8vo. $s.

Home.— BLANCHE LISLE, and other Poems. By Cecil
Home. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

Hood (Tom).— THE PLEASANT TALE OF PUSS AND
ROBIN AND THEIR FRIENDS, KITTY AND BOB.
Told in Pictures by L. Frolich, and in Rhymes by Tom Hood.
Crown 8vo. gilt. 3 s. 6d.

** The volume is prettily got up, and is sure to be a favourite in the
nursery." — Scotsman. " Herr Frolich has outdone himself in
his pictures of this dramatic chase." — Morning Post.

Keary (A.) — Works by Miss A. Keary :—
JANET'S HOME. New Edition. Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d.

" Never did a more char?ning family appear upon the canvas ; and
most skilfully and felicitously have their characters been portrayed.
Each individual of the fireside is a finished portrait, distinct and
lifelike. . . . The future before her as a novelist is that of becoming
the Miss Austin of her generation." — Sun.
CLEMENCY FRANKLYN. New Edition. Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d.
"Full oftvisdom and goodness, simple, truthful, and artistic. . . It
is capital as a story ; better still in its pure tone and wholesome
influence." — Globe.
OLDBURY. Three vols. Crown 8vo. 31*. 6d.

"This is a very powerfully zvritten story.'''' — GLOBE. "This is a
really excellent novel."— Illustrated London News. " The
sketches of society in Oldbury are excellent. The pictures of child
life are full of truth." — Westminster Review.

Keary (A. and E.)— Works by A. and E. Keary:—
THE LITTLE WANDERLIN, and other Fairy Tales. i8mo. 2s. 6d.

f* The tales are fanciful and well written, and they are sure to win
favour amongst little readers." — Athenaeum.
THE HEROES OF ASGARD. Tales from Scandinavian
Mythology. New and Revised Edition, Illustrated by Huard.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

" Told in a light and amusing style, which, in its drollery and
quaintness, reminds us of our old favourite Grimm." — Times.

Kingsley. — Works by the Rev. Charles Kingsley, M.A.,
Rector of Eversley, and Canon of Westminster : —
"WESTWARD HO!" or, The Voyages and Adventures of
Sir Amyas Leigh. Ninth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

BELLES LETTRES.

Kingsley (C.) — continued.

Fraser's Magazine calls it "almost the best historical novel of
the day:1

TWO YEARS AGO. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

"Mr. Kingsley has provided ics all along with such pleasant diversions
— such rich and brightly tinted glimpses of natural history, such
suggestive remarks on mankind, society \ and all sorts of topics,
that amidst the pleasure of 'the way, the circuit to be made will be by
most forgotten"— Guardian.
HYPATIA ; or, New Foes with an Old Face. Seventh Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6^.

HEREWARD THE WAKE— LAST OF THE ENGLISH.

Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
YEAST : A Problem. Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. Jj.
ALTON LOCKE. New Edition. With a New Preface. Crown 8vo.

4s. 6d.

The author' shows, to quote the Spectator, "what it is that con-
stitutes ike true Christian, God-fearing, man-living gentleman."
THE WATER BABIES. A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. New

Edition, with additional Illustrations by Sir NoelPaton, R.S.A.,

and P. Skelton. Crown 8vo. cloth, extra gilt. $s.

"In fun, in humour, and in innocent imagination, as a child's
book we do not know its equal." — London Review. "Mr.
Kingsley must have the credit of revealing to us a new order of life.
. . . There is in the i Water Babies' an abundance of wit, fun,
good humour, geniality, elan, go." — Times.
THE HEROES ; or, Greek Fairy Tales for my Children. With

Coloured Illustrations. New Edition. i8mo. 4s. 6d.

" We do not think these heroic stories have ever been more attractively
told. . . There is a deep under-current of religious feeling traceable
throughout its pages which is sure to influence young readers potver-
fully." — London Review. " One of the children's books that
will surely become a classic." — Nonconformist.
PHAETHON ; or, Loose Thoughts for Loose Thinkers. Third

Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s.

" The dialogue of 1 Phaethon ' has striking beauties, and its sugges-
tions may meet half-way many a latent doubt, and, like a light
breeze, Uft from the soul clouds that are gathering heavily, and
threatening to settle down in misty gloom on the summer of many
a fair and promising young life." — Spectator.
POEMS ; including The Saint's Tragedy, Andromeda, Songs,

Ballads, etc. Complete Collected Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s.

The Spectator calls "Andromeda" "the finest piece of English
hexameter verse that has ever been written. It is a volume
which many readers will be glad to possess."
PROSE IDYLLS. NEW AND OLD. Second Edition. Crown

8vo. $s.

Contents: — A Charm of Birds; Chalk-Stream Studies; The
Fens ; My Winter- Garden ; From Ocean to Sea ; North Devon.

BELLES LETTRES.

" Altogether a delightful book // exhibits the author's best

traits, and cannot fail to infect the reader with a love of nature
and of out-door life and its enjoyments. It is well calculated to
bring a gleam of summer with its pleasant associations, into the
bleak winter-time ; while a better companion for a summer ramble
could hardly be found.'" — British Quarterly Review.

Kingsley (H.) — Works by Henry Kingsley:—

TALES OF OLD TRAVEL. Re-narrated. With Eight full-page
Illustrations by Huard. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth,
extra gilt. 5-r.

' ' We know no better book for those who want k7iowledge or seek to
refresh it. As for the ' sensational most novels are tame com-
pared with these nai'ratives." — Athen/eum. " Exactly the book
to interest and to do good to intelligent and high-spirited boys." —
Literary Churchman.
THE LOST CHILD. With Eight Illustrations by Frolich.

Crown 4to. cloth gilt. 6d.

"A pathetic story, and told so as to give children an interest in
Australian ways and scenery."— Globe. " Very charmingly and
very touchingly told." — Saturday Review.
OAKSHOTT CASTLE. 3 Vols. Crown Svo. 31J. 6d.

" No one who takes tip * Oakshott Castle'' will willingly put it down
until the last page is turned. . . . It may fairly be considered a
capital story, full of go, and abounding in word pictures of storms
and wrecks." — Observer.

Knatchbull-Hugessen.— -Works by E. h. Knatchbull-

Hugessen, M.P. :—

Mr. Knatchbull- Htigessen has won for himself a reputation as
a teller of fairy-tales. '* His powers" i says the Times,
" are of a very high order ; light and brilliant narrative flows
from his pen, and is fed by an invention as graceful as it is inex-
haustible." " Children reading his stories," the SCOTSMAN says,
"or hearing than read, will have their minds refreshed and in-
vigorated as much as their bodies would be by abundance of fresh
air and exercise."

STORIES FOR MY CHILDREN. With Illustrations. Fourth
Edition. Crown 8vo. $s.

" The stories are charming, and full of life and fun." — Standard.
" The author has an imagination as fanciful as Grimm himself,
while some of his stories are superior to anything that Hans Chris-
tian Andersen has written." — NONCONFORMIST.
CRACKERS FOR CHRISTMAS. More Stories. With Illustra-
tions by Jellicoe and Elwes. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo.
' ' A fascinating little volume, zvhich will make him friends in every
household in which there are children." — DAILY News.
MOONSHINE: Fairy Tales. With Illustrations by W. Brunton.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth gilt. $s.

" A volume of fairy tales, written not only for ungrown children,

BELLES LETTRES.

Knatchbull-Hugessen (E. H.) — continued.

but for bigger, and if you are nearly worn out, or sick, or sorry,
you will find it good reading. " — GRAPHIC. ' ' The most charming
volume of fairy tales which we have ever read. . . . We cannot quit
this very pleasant book without a word of praise to its illustrator.
Mr. Brunton from first to last has done admirably." — Times.
TALES AT TEA-TIME. Fairy Stories. With Seven Illustra-
tions by W. Brunton. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth gilt 5-r.
" Capitally illustrated by W. Brunton. ... In frolic and fancy they
are quite equal to his other books. The author knows how to write
fairy stories as they should be zoritten. The whole book is full of
the most delightful drolleries.'" — Times.
QUEER FOLK. FAIRY STORIES. Illustrated by S. E.
Waller. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth gilt. $s.
" Decidedly the author s happiest effort. . . . One of the best story
books of the year." — Hour.

Knatchbull-Hugessen (Louisa). — the HISTORY OF
PRINCE PERRYPETS. A Fairy Tale. By Louisa Knatch-
bull-Hugessen. With Eight Illustrations by Weigand.
New Edition. Crown 4to. cloth gilt. ^s. 6d.

"A grand and exciting fairy tale." — Morning Post. "A delicious
piece of fairy nonsense." — Illustrated London News.

Knox.— SONGS OF CONSOLATION. By Isa Craig Knox.
Extra fcap. 8vo. Cloth extra, gilt edges. 4s. 6d.

" The verses are truly sweet ; there is in them not only much genuine
poetic quality, but an ardent, flowing devotcdness, and a peculiar
skill in propounding theological tenets in the most graceful way,
which any divine might envy." — Scotsman.

Latham.— SERTUM SHAKSPERIANUM, Subnexis aliquot
aliunde excerptis floribus. Latine reddidit Rev. H. Latham,
M.A. Extra fcap. 8vo. 5;.

Lemon.— THE LEGENDS OF NUMBER NIP. By Mark
Lemon. With Illustrations by C. Keene. New Edition. Extra
fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d.

Life and Times of Conrad the Squirrel, a Story

for Children. By the Author of "Wandering Willie," " Effie's
Friends," &c. With a Frontispiece by R. Farren. Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d.

"Having commenced on the first page, we were compelled to go on to
the conclusion, and this we predict will be the case with every one
who opens the book." — Pall Mall Gazette.

Little E Stella, and other FAIRY TALES FOR THE YOUNG.
i8mo. cloth extra. 2s. 6d.

" This is a fine story, and we thank heaven for not being too wise to
enjoy it." — Daily News.
Lowell. — Works by J. Russell Lowell :—
AMONG MY BOOKS. Six Essays. Dryden — Witchcraft —

BELLES LETT RES.

L O W e 1 1 — continued.

Shakespeare once More — New England Two Centuries Ago —
Lessing — Rousseau and the Sentimentalists. Crown 8vo. ys. 6d.

" We may safely say the volume is one of which our chief complaint
must be that there is not more of it. There are good sense and lively
feeling forcibly and tersely expressed in every page of his writing. "
— Pall Mall Gazette.
COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS of James Russell Lowell.

With Portrait, engraved by Jeens. i8mo. cloth extra. 4s. 6d.

"All readers who are able to recognise and appreciate genuine verse
will give a glad welcome to this beautiful little volume." — Pall
Mall Gazette.

Lyttelton. — Works by Lord Lyttelton : —
THE "COMUS" OF MILTON, rendered into Greek Verse.

Extra fcap. 8vo. ^s.
THE "SAMSON AGONISTES" OF MILTON, rendered into

Greek Verse. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d.

"Classical in spirit, full of force, and true to the original."
— Guardian.

Maclaren.— THE FAIRY FAMILY. A series of Ballads and
Metrical Tales illustrating the Fairy Mythology of Europe. By
Archibald Maclaren. With Frontispiece, Illustrated Title,
and Vignette. Crown 8vo. gilt. 5^

" A successful attempt to translate into the vernacular some of the
Fairy Mythology of Europe. The verses are very good. There is
no shirking difficulties of rhyme, and the ballad metre which is
oftenest employed has a great deal of the kind of 1 go ' which we find
so seldom outside the pages of Scott. The book is of permanent
value."— Guardian.

Macmillan's Magazine. — Published Monthly. Price is.

Volumes I. to XXIX. are now ready. Js. 6d. each.
Macquoid. — PATTY. By Katharine S. Macquoid. Third

and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

" A book to be read " — Standard. "A powerful and fascinating
story. " — Daily Telegraph. The Globe considers it 1 ' well-
written, amusing, and interesting, and has the merit of being out
of the ordinary run of novels."

Maguire, — YOUNG PRINCE MARIGOLD, AND OTHER
FAIRY STORIES. By the late John Francis Maguire, M.P.
Illustrated by S. E. Waller. Globe 8vo. gilt. 4^. 6d.

" The author has evidently studied the ways and tastes of children and
got at the secret of amusing them ; and has succeeded in what is not
so easy a task as it may seem — in producing a really good children's
book." — Daily Telegraph.

Marlitt (E.) — THE COUNTESS GISELA. Translated from
the German of E. Marlitt. Crown 8vo. Js. 6d.
"A very beautiful story of German country life." — Literary
Churchman.

BELLES LETTRES.

Masson (Professor), — Works by David Masson, M.A.,
Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University
of Edinburgh.

BRITISH NOVELISTS AND THEIR STYLES. Being a Critical
Sketch of the History of British Prose Fiction. Crown 8vo. Js. 6d.

WORDSWORTH, SHELLEY, KEATS, AND OTHER
ESSAYS. Crown 8vo. $s.

CHATTERTON : A Story of the Year 1770. Crown 8vo. $s.

THE THREE DEVILS : LUTHER'S, MILTON'S, and
GOETHE'S ; and other Essays. Crown 8vo. $s.

Mazini.— IN THE GOLDEN SHELL ; A Story of Palermo.
By Linda Mazini. With Illustrations. Globe 8vo. cloth gilt.
4s. 6d.

" As beautiful and bright and fresh as the scenes to which it ivafts
us over the blue Mediterranean, and as pure and innocent, but
piquant and sprightly as the little girl who plays the part of it?
heroine, is this admirable little book." — ILLUSTRATED LONDON
News.

Merivale. — KEATS' HYPERION, rendered into Latin Verse.
By C. Merivale, B.D. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo.
y. 6d.

Milner. — THE LILY OF LUMLEY. By Edith Milner.
Crown 8vo. Js. 6d.

" The novel is a good one and decidedly worth the reading
Examiner. 11 A pretty, brightly-written story." — Literary
Churchman. "A tale possessing the deepest interest." — Court
Journal.

Milton's Poetical Works.— Edited with Text collated from
the best Authorities, with Introduction and Notes by David
Masson. Three vols. 8vo. With Three Portraits engraved by
C H. Jeens and Radcliffe. (Uniform with the Cambridge
Shakespeare. )

Mistral (F.) — MIRELLE, a Pastoral Epic of Provence. Trans-
lated by H. Crichton. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s.

" It would be hard to overpraise the sweetness and pleasing freshness
of this charming epic." — Athenaeum. good translation of

a poem that deserves to be known by all students of literature and
friends of old*world simplicity in story-telling." — Nonconformist.

Mitford (A. B.)— TALES OF OLD JAPAN. By A. B.

Mitford, Second Secretary to the British Legation in Japan.
With Illustrations drawn and cut on Wood by Japanese Artists.
New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

** They will always be interesting as memorials of a most exceptional
society ; while, regarded simply as tales, they are sparkling, sensa-
tional, and dramatic, and the originality of their ideas and the
quaint ncss of their language give them a most captivating piquancy.

BELLES LETTRES.

The illustrations are extremely interesting, and for the curious in
such matters have a special and particular value" — Pall Mall
Gazette.

Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in THE HIGHLANDS.

New Edition, with Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d.

' 1 The book is calculated to recall pleasant memories of holidays well
spent, and scenes not easily to be forgotten. To those who have
never been in the Western Highlands, or sailed along the Frith of
Clyde and on the Western Coast, it will seem almost like a fairy
story, lhere is a charm in the volume which makes it anything
but easy for a reader who has opened it to put it down until the last
page has been read." — Scotsman.

Mrs. Jerningham's Journal, a Poem purporting to be the

Journal of a newly-married Lady. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo.
3s. (id.

"ft is nearly a perfect gem. We have had nothing so good for a
long time, and those who neglect to read it are neglecting one of
the jewels of conte?nporary history." — Edinburgh Daily Re-
view. ' ' One quality in the piece, sufficient of itself to claim a
moments attention, is that it is unique— original, indeed, is not too
strong a word — in the manner of its conception and execution. "
— Pall Mall Gazette.

Mudie.— STRAY LEAVES. By C. E. Mudie. New Edition.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 3-r. 6d. Contents: — "His and Mine" —
"Night and Day"— "One of Many," &c.

This little volume consists of a number of poems, mostly of a genuinely
devotional character. * ' 7'hey are for the most part so exquisitely
sweet and delicate as to be quite a marvel of composition. They are
worthy of being laid up in the recesses of the heart, and recalled to
memory from tune to time." — Illustrated London News.

Murray.— THE BALLADS AND SONGS OF SCOTLAND,

in View of their Influence on the Character of the People. By
J. Clark Murray, LL.D., Professor of Mental and Moral
Philosophy in McGill College, Montreal. Crown 8vo. 6s.

" Independently of the lucidity of the style in which the wliole booh
is written, the selection of the examples alone would recommend it
to favour, while the geniality of the criticism upon those examples
cannot fail to make them highly appreciated and valued." —
Morning Tost.

Myers (Ernest). — THE PURITANS. By Ernest Myers.
Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth. 2s. 6d.

" // is not too much to call it a really grand poem, stately and dig-
nified, and showing not only a high poetic mind, but also great
power over poetic expression." — Literary Churchman.

Myers (F. W. H.) — POEMS. By F. W. H. Myers. Con-
taining "St. Paul," "St. John," and others. Extra fcap. 8vo.
4*. 6d.

iilt is rare to find a writer who combines to such an extent the faculty

BELLES LETT RES.

of communicating feelings with the faculty of euphonious expres-
sion."— Spectator. " 'St. PauV stands without a rival as the
noblest religious poem which has been written in an age which
beyond any other has been prolific in this class of poetry. The sub-
limest conceptions are expressed in language which, for richness,
taste, and purity, we have never seen excelled" — John Bull.

Nichol.— HANNIBAL, A HISTORICAL DRAMA. By John
Nichol, B.A. Oxon., Regius Professor of English Language and
Literature in the University of Glasgow. Extra fcap. 8vo. 7-r. 6d.

" The poem combines in no ordinary degree firmness and workman-
ship. After the lapse of many centuries, an English poet is found
paying to the great Carlhagenian the worthiest poetical tribute which
has as yet, to our knowledge, been afforded to his noble and stainless
name." — Saturday Review.

Nine Years Old.— By the Author of "St. Olave's," "When I
was a Little Girl," &c. Illustrated by Frolich. Third Edition.
Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth gilt. 4-r. 6d.

It is believed that this story, by the favourably known author of
" St. Olave's," will be found both highly interesting and instructive
to the young. The volume contains eight graphic illustrations by
Mr. L. Frolich. The Examiner says: "Whether the readers
are nine years old, or twice, or seven times as old, they must enjoy
this pretty volume."

Noel. — BEATRICE, AND OTHER POEMS. By the Hon.
Roden Noel. Fcap. 8vo. 6s.

i(Itis impossible to read the poem through without being powerfully
moved. There are passages in it which for intensity and tender-
ness, dear and vivid vision, spontaneous and delicate sympathy,
may be co?npared zuith the best efforts of our best living writers."
— Spectator.

Norton. — Works by the Hon. Mrs. Norton
THE LADY OF LA GARAYE. With Vignette and Frontispiece.
New Edition. Fcap. 8vo. \s. 6d.

" Full of thought well expressed, and may be classed among her best
efforts."— -Times.
OLD SIR DOUGLAS. Cheap Edition. Globe 8vo. 'is. 6d.

" This varied and lively novel — this clever novel so full of character,
and of fine incidental remark." — Scotsman. "One of the
pleasantest and healthiest stories of modern fiction." — Globe.

Oliphant. — Works by Mrs. Oliphant :—

. AGNES HOPETOUN'S SCHOOLS AND HOLIDAYS. New
Edition with Illustrations. Royal i6mo. gilt leaves. 4s. 6d.
* ' There are few books of late years more fitted to touch the heart,
purify the feeling, and quicken and sustain right principles." —
Nonconformist. "A more gracefully written siory it is impos-
sible to desire."— -Daily News.
A SON OF THE SOIL. New Edition. Globe 8vo. is. 6d.
"It is a very different work from the ordinary run of novels.

BELLES LETT RES.

The whole life of a man is portrayed in it, worked out with subtlety
and insight.'1'' — Athen/eum.

Our Year. A Child's Book, in Prose and Verse. By the Author
of "John Halifax, Gentleman." Illustrated by Clarence
Dobell. Royal i6mo. y. 6d.

" It is just the book we could wish to see in the hands of every child."
— English Churchman.

Olrig Grange. Edited by Hermann Kunst, Philol. Professor.
Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d.

i(tA masterly and original power of impression, pouring itself forth
in clear, sweet, strong rhythm. ... It is a fine poem, full of life,
of music and of clear vision." — North British Daily Mail.

Oxford Spectator, The. — Reprinted. Extra fcap. 8vo.
%s. 6d.

"There is," the Saturday Review says, "all the old fun, the
old sense of social ease and brightness and freedom, the old medley
of work and indolence, of jest and earnest, that made Oxford life
so picturesque."

Palgrave. — Works by Francis Turner Palgrave, M.A., late
Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford : —
THE FIVE DAYS' ENTERTAINMENTS AT WENTWORTII
GRANGE. A Book for Children. With Illustrations by Arthur
Hughes, and Engraved Title-page by Jeens. Small 4to. cloth
extra. 6s.

" If you want a really good book for both sexes and all ages, buy
this, as handsome a volume of tales as you'll find in all the
market. " — Athenaeum. ' 'Exquisite both in form and substance"
— Guardian.
LYRICAL POEMS. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s.

"A volume of pure quiet verse, sparkling with tender melodies, and
alive with thoughts of genuine poetry. . . . Turn where we will
throughout the volume, we find traces of beauty, tenderness, and
truth ; true poet's work, touched and refined by the master-hand of
a real artist, who shows his genius even in trifles." — Standard.
ORIGINAL HYMNS. Third Edition, enlarged, i8mo. Is. 6d.

" So choice, so perfect, and so refined, so tender in feeling, and so
scholarly in expression, that we look with special interest to every-
thing that he gives us. " — Literary Churchman.
GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICS.

Edited by F. T. Palgrave. See Golden Treasury Series.
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS AND SONGS. Edited by F. T.

Palgrave. Gem Edition. With Vignette Title by Jeens. 3^.6^.

"Tor minute elegance no volume could possibly excel the ' Gem
Edition' " — Scotsman.

Parables.— TWELVE PARABLES OF OUR LORD. Illus-
trated in Colours from Sketches taken in the East by McEniry
with Frontispiece from a Picture by John Jellicoe, and Illumi-
nated Texts and Borders. Royal 4to. in Ornamental Binding. 16s.

BELLES LETTRES.

The Times calls it "one of the most beautiful of modern pictorial
•works while the Graphic says "nothing in this style, so good,
has ever before been published."
Patmore. — THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND, from the Best
Poets. Selected and arranged by Coventry Patmore. New-
Edition. With Illustrations by J, Lawson. Crown 8vo. gilt. 6s.
Golden Treasury Edition. i8mo. 4^. 6d.

* ' The charming illustrations added to marry of the poems will add
greatly to their value in the eyes of' children." — Daily News.
Pember.— THE TRAGEDY OF LESBOS. A Dramatic Poem.
By E. H. Pember. Fcap. 8vo. 4-r. 6d.

Founded upon the story of Sappho. 1 'lie tells his story with dramatic
force, and in language that often rises almost to grandeur." —
Athenaeum.

Poole.— PICTURES OF COTTAGE LIFE IN THE WEST
OF ENGLAND. By Margaret E. Poole. New and Cheaper
Edition. With Frontispiece by R. Farren. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d.

*' Charming stories of peasant life, written in something of George
Eliot's style. . . . Her stories could not be other than they are, as
literal as truth, as romantic as fiction, full of pathetic touches
and strokes of genuine humour. . . . All the stories are studies
of actual life, executed with no mean art." — Times.
Population of an Old. Pear Tree. From the French

of E. Van Bruyssel. Edited by the Author of " The Heir of

Redely ffe." With Illustrations by Becker. Cheaper Edition.

Crown 8vo. gilt. 4s. 6d.

11 This is not a regular book of natural history, but a description op
all the living creatures that came and went in a summer's day
beneath an old pear tree, observed by eyes that had for the nonce
become microscopic, recorded by a pen that finds dramas in every-
thing, and illustrated by a dainty pencil. . . . We can hardly
fancy anyone with a moder-ate turn for the curiosities of insect
life, or for delicate French esprit, not being taken by these clever
sketches." — Guardian. "A whimsical and charming little book."
— Athenaeum.

Prince Florestan of Monaco, The Fall of. By

HIMSELF. New Edition,, with Illustration and Map. 8vo. cloth.
Extra gilt edges, $s. A French Translation, 5.5-. Also an Edition
for the People. Crown 8vo. is.

' ' Those 7vho have read only the extracts given, will not need to be
told how amusing and happily touched it is. Those who read it for
other purposes than amusement can hardly miss the sober ana
sound political lessons with which its light pages abound, and which
are as much needed in England as by the nation to whom the author
directly addresses his moral." — Pall Mall Gazette. " This
little book is very clever, zvild with animal spirits, but showing
plenty of good sense, amid all the heedless nonsense which fills so
many of its pages. " — Dai ly News. ' ' In an age little remarkable
for powers of political satire, the sparkle of the pages gives them
every claim to welcome." — Standard.

BELLES LETTRES.

Rankine.— SONGS AND FABLES. By W. J. McQuorn
Rankine, late Professor of Civil Engineering and Mechanics at
Glasgow. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s.
"A lively volume of verses, full of a fine manly spirit, much
humour and geniality. The illustrations are admirably con-
ceived, and executed with fidelity and talent" — Morning Post.

Realmah. — By the Author of "Friends in Council." Crown
8vo. 6s.

Rhoades. — POEMS. By James Rhoades. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

Richardson THE ILIAD OF THE EAST. A Selection of

Legends drawn from Valmiki's Sanskrit Poem, "The Ramayana."
By Frederika Richardson. Crown 8vo. Js. 6d.
11 It is impossible to read it without recognizing the value and interest
of the Eastern epic. It is as fascinating as a fairy tale, this
romantic poem of India." — Globe. "A charming volume, which
at once enmeshes the reader in its snares. " — Athenaeum.
Roby.— STORY OF A HOUSEHOLD, AND OTHER POEMS.
By Mary K. Roby. Fcap. 8vo. 5^.

Rogers.— Works by J. E. Rogers :—
RIDICULA REDIVIVA. Old Nursery Rhymes. Illustrated in
Colours, with Ornamental Cover. Crown 4to. 3^. 6d.

" The most splendid, and at the same time the most really meritorious
of the books specially intended for children, that zue have seen." —
Spectator. " These large bright pictures will attract children to
really good and honest artistic work, and that otight not to be an
indifferent consideration with parents who propose to educate their
children" — Pall Mall Gazette.
MORES RIDICULE Old Nursery Rhymes. Illustrated in Colours,

with Ornamental Cover. Crown 410. 3s. 6d.

" These world-old rhymes have never had and need never wish for
a better pictorial setting than Mr. Rogers has given them" —
Times. ' " Nothing could be quainter or more absurdly comical
than most of the pictures, which are all carefully executed ana
beautifully coloured." — Globe.

Rossetti.— GOBLIN MARKET, AND OTHER POEMS. By
Christina Rossetti. With two Designs byD. G. Rossetti.
Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. $s.

"She handles her little marvel with that rare poetic discrimination
which neither exhausts it of its simple wonders by pushing sym-
bolism too far, nor keeps those wonders in the merely fabulous and
capricious stage. In Jact, she has produced a true children's poem,
which is far more delightful to the mature than to children, though
it would be delightful to all" — Spectator.

Runaway (The). A Story for the Young. By the Author of
" Mrs. Jerningham's Journal." With Illustrations by J. Lawson.
Globe 8vo. gilt. 4s. 6d.

" This is one of the best, if not indeed the very best, oj all the stories
that has come before us this Christmas. The heroines are both
B 2

BELLES LETT RES

charming, and, unlike heroines, they are as full of fun as of charms.
It is an admirable book to read aloud to the young folk when they
are all gathered round the fii-e, and nurses and other apparitions
are still far away." — Saturday Review.

Ruth and her Friends. A Story for Girls. With a Frontis-
piece. Fourth Edition. i8mo. Cloth extra, is. 6d.
" We wish all the school girls and home-taught girls in the land had
the opportunity of reading it." — Nonconformist.

Scouring of the White Horse; or, the Long

VACATION RAMBLE OF A LONDON CLERK. Illustrated
by Doyle. Imp. i6mo. Cheaper Issue. 3s. 6d.
"A glorious tale of summer joy." — Freeman. " There is a genial
hearty life about the book." — John Bull. " The execution is
excellent. . . . Like 1 Tom Brown's School Days,* the * White
Horse* gives the reader a feeling of gratitude and personal esteem
towards the author." — Saturday Review.

Shairp (Principal).— KILMAHOE, a Highland Pastoral, with
other Poems. By John Campbell Shairp, Principal of the
United College, St. Andrews. Fcap. Svo. $s.

" Kilmahoe is a Highland Pastoral, redolent of the warm soft air
of the western lochs and moors, sketched out with remarkable
grace and picturesqueness" — Saturday Review.

Shakespeare. — The Works of William Shakespeare. Cam-
bridge Edition. Edited by W. George Clark, M.A. and W.
Aldis Wright, M.A. Nine vols. 8vo. Cloth. 4/. 14J. 6d.
The Guardian calls it an " excellent, and, to the student, almost
indispensable edition ; " and the Examiner calls it "an unrivalled
edition. "

Shakespeare's Tempest. Edited with Glossarial and Ex-
planatory Notes, by the Rev. J. M. Jephson. New Edition.
i8mo. is.

Slip (A) in the Fens.— Illustrated by the Author. Crown
8vo. 6s.

" An artistic little volume, for every page is a pictured — Times. "//
will be read with pleasure, and with a pleasure that is altogether
innocent. " — Saturday Review.

Smith. — POEMS. By Catherine Barnard Smith. Fcap.
Svo. Ss-

" Wealthy in feeling, meaning, finish, and grace ; not without passion,
which is suppressed, kit the keener for that." — Athenaeum.

Smith (Rev. Walter).— hymns of CHRIST AND THE
CHRISTIAN LIFE. By the Rev. Walter C. Smith, M.A.
Fcap. Svo. 6s.

* 1 These are among the sweetest sacred poems we have read for a long
time. With no profuse imagery, expressing a range of feeling
and expression by no means uncommon, they are true and elevated,
and their pathos is profound and simple."— Nonconformist.

BELLES LETTRES.

Spring Songs. By a West Highlander. With a Vignette
Illustration by Gourlay Steele. Fcap. 8vo. is. 6d.

* * Without a trace of affectation or sentimentalism, these utterances
are perfectly simple and natural, profoundly human and pro-
foundly true.'" — Daily News.

Stanley —TRUE TO LIFE.— A SIMPLE STORY. By Mary
Stanley. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d.

1 ' For many a long day we have not met with a more simple, healthy,
and unpretending story." — STANDARD.

Stephen (C. E.)— THE SERVICE OF THE POOR; being
an Inquiry into the Reasons for and against the Establishment of
Religious Sisterhoods for Charitable Purposes. By Caroline
Emilia Stephen. Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d.

"It touches incidentally and with much wisdom and tenderness on
so many of the relations of women, particularly of single women,
with society, that it may be read with advantage by many who
have never thought of entering a Sisterhood." — Spectator.

Stephens (J. B.)~ CONVICT ONCE. A Poem. By J.
Brunton Stephens. Extra fcap. 8vo. y. 6d.
" It is as far more interesting than ninety-nine novels out of a

hundred, as it is superior to them in pozuer, worth, and beauty.

We should most strongly advise everybody to read ' Convict Once. ' "

— Westminster Review.

Streets and Lanes of a City: Being the Reminiscences
of Amy Dutton. With a Preface by the Bishop of Salis-
bury. Second and Cheaper Edition. Globe 8vo. 2s. 6d.
"One of the most really striking books that has ever come before us."
— Literary Churchman.

Thring.— SCHOOL SONGS. A Collection of Songs for Schools.
With the Music arranged for four Voices. Edited by the Rev. E.
Thring and H. Riccius. Folio. Js. 6d.

The collection includes the "Agnus Dei," Tennyson's "Light
Brigade,'" Macaulay's "Ivry," etc. among other pieces.

Tom Brown's School Days. — By An Old Boy.
Golden Treasury Edition, 4s. 6d. People's Edition, 2s.
With Seven Illustrations by A. Hughes and Sydney Hall.
Crown 8vo. 6s.

*' The most famous boy's book in the language." — DAILY News.
Tom Brown at Oxford. — New Edition. With Illustrations.
Crown 8vo. 6s.

" In no other work that we can call to mind are the finer qualities of
the English gentleman more happily portrayed." — Daily News.
"A book of great power and truth." — National Review.
Trench. — Works by R. Chenevix Trench, D.D., Archbishop
of Dublin. (For other Works by this Author, see THEOLOGICAL,
Historical, and Philosophical Catalogues.)
POEMS. Collected and arranged anew. Fcap. 8vo. Js. 6d.

BELLES LETTRES.

Trench (Archbishop) — continued.

ELEGIAC POEMS. Third Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d.
CALDERON'S LIFE'S A DREAM : The Great Theatre of the

World. With an Essay on his Life and Genius. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.
HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY. Selected and

arranged, with Notes, by Archbishop Trench. Second Edition.

Extra fcap. 8vo. $s. 6d.

* ' The Archbishop has conferred in this delightful volume an important
gift on the whole English-speaking population of the world" —
Pall Mall Gazette.
SACRED LATIN POETRY, Chiefly Lyrical. Selected and
arranged for Use. By Archbishop Trench. Third Edition,
Corrected and Improved. Fcap. 8vo. *]s.
JUSTIN MARTYR, AND OTHER POEMS. Fifth Edition.
Fcap. 8vo. 6s.

Trollope (Anthony). — SIR HARRY HOTSPUR OF
HUMBLETHWAITE. By Anthony Trollope, Author of
"Framley Parsonage," etc. Cheap Edition. Globe 8vo. 2s.6d.
The Athenaeum re?narks : "No reader who begins to read this book
is likely to lay it down until the last page is turned. This brilliant
novel appears to us decidedly more successful than any other of Mr.
Trollope 's shorter stories."
Turner. — Works by the Rev. Charles Tennyson Turner :—
SONNETS. Dedicated to his Brother, the Poet Laureate. Fcap.

8vo. 4J. 6d.
SMALL TABLEAUX. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d.

Under the Limes. — By the Author of " Christina North."
Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6.r.

"The readers of ' Christina North ' are not likely to have forgotten
that bright, fresh, picturesque story, nor will they be slozo to
welcome so pleasant a companion to it as this. It abounds in
happy touches of description, of pathos, and insight into the life
and passion of true love." — Standard. " One of the prettiest
and best told stories which it has been our good fortune to read for
a longtime."— -Pall Mall Gazette.

Vittoria Colonna.— LIFE AND POEMS. By Mrs. Henry

Roscoe. Crown 8vo. gs.

"It is written with good taste, with quick and intelligent sympathy,
occasionally with a real freshness and charm of style" — Pall
Mall Gazette.

Waller. — SIX WEEKS IN THE SADDLE : A Painter's Journal
in Iceland. By S. E. Waller. Illustrated by the Author.
Crown 8vo. 6j-.

" An exceedingly pleasant and naturally written little book. . . Mr.
Waller has a clever pencil, and the text is well illustrated with his
own sketches."— Times.
Wandering Willie. By the Author of " Efne's Friends," and
" John Hafeherton." Third Edition. Crown 8 vo. 6s.

BELLES LETTRES.

" This is an idyll of rare truth and beauty. . . . The story is simple
and touching, the style 0/ extraordinary delicacy, precision, and
picturesqueness. . . . A charming gift-book for young ladies not
yet pro??ioted to novels, and zvill amply repay those of their elders
who may give an hour to its perusal." — Daily News.

Webster. — Works by Augusta Webster :—

"If Mrs. Webster only remains true to herself, she will assuredly
take a higher rank as a poet than any woman has yet done.'1'' —
Westminster Review.
DRAMATIC STUDIES. Extra fcap. 8vo. $s.

"A volume as strongly marked by perfect taste as by poetic power"—
' Nonconformist.
A WOMAN SOLD, AND OTHER POEMS. Crown 8vo. -js. 6d.
"Mrs. Webster has shown us that she is able to draw admirably
from the life ; that she can observe with subtlety, and render her
observations with delicacy ; that she can impersonate complex con-
ceptions and venture into which fexv living writers can follow her. "
—Guardian.

PORTRAITS. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d.

" Mrs. Webster's poems exhibit simplicity and tenderness . . . her
taste is perfect . . . This simplicity is combined with a subtlety of
thought, feeling, and observation which demand that attention which
only real lovers of poetry are apt to bestow." — Westminster
Review.

PROMETHEUS BOUND OF iESCHYLUS. Literally translated

into English Verse. Extra fcap. 8vo. 3^. 6d.

" Closeness and smiplicity combined tuith literary skill." — Athe-
naeum. " Airs. Webster's 'Dramatic Studies' and * Translation
of Prometheus1 have won for her an honourable place among our
female poets. She writes with remarkable vigour and dramatic
realization, and bids fair to be the most successful claimant of Airs.
Browning's mantle." — British Quarterly Review.
MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. Literally translated into English

Verse. Extra fcap. 8vo. 3-r. 6d.

" Airs. Webster's translation surpasses our utmost expectations. It is
a photograph of the original without any 0/ that harshness which
so often accompanies a photograph!' — Westminster Review.
THE AUSPICIOUS DAY. A Dramatic Poem. Extra fcap.

8vo. 5j-.

" The 'Auspicious Day1 shows a marked advance, not only in art,
but, in zvhat is of far more importance, in breadth of thought and
intellectual grasp." — Westminster Review. " This drama is
a manifestation of high dramatic power on the part of the gifted
writer, and entitled to our warmest admiration, as a worthy piece
of work." — Standard.
YU-PE-YA'S LUTE. A Chinese Tale in English Verse. Extra

fcap. 8vo. 3J. 6d.

"A very charming tale, charmingly told hi dainty verse, with
occasional lyrics of tender beauty." — Standard. " We close the

BELLES LETTRES.

Webster — continued.

book with the renewed conviction that in Mrs. Webster we have a
profound and original poet. The book is marked not by mere
sweetness of melody — rare as that gift is — but by the infinitely
rarer gifts of dramatic pozuer, of passion, and sympathetic insight."
— Westminster Review.

When I was a Little Girl. STORIES FOR CHILDREN.

By the Author of "St. Olave's." Fourth Edition. Extra fcap.
8vo. 4.;. 6d. With Eight Illustrations by L. Frolich.

"At the head, and a long way ahead, of all books for girls, we
place ' When I was a Little Girl.'' " — Times. " // is one of the.
choicest morsels op child-biography which we have met with." —
Nonconformist.

White.— RHYMES BY WALTER WHITE. 8vo. p. 6d.

Whittier.— JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER'S POETICAL
WORKS. Complete Edition, with Portrait engraved by C. H.
Jeens. i8mo. 4J-. 6d.

" Mr. Whittier has all the smooth melody and the pathos of the author
of * Hiarvatha? with a greater nicely of description and a
quainter fancy." — Graphic.

Wolf.— THE LIFE AND HABITS OF WILD ANIMALS.

Twenty Illustrations by Joseph Wolf, engraved by J. W. and E.

Whymfer. With descriptive Letter-press, by D. G. Elliot,

F.L.S. Super royal 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges. 21s.

This is the last series of drawings which will be made by Mr. Wolf,
either upon wood or stone. The Pall Mall Gazette says:
" The fierce, untameable side of brute nature has never received a
more robust and vigorous interpretation, and the various incidents
in which particular character is shown are set forth with rare dra-
?>iatic pozuer. For excellence that will endure, we incline to place
this very near the top of the list of Christmas books" And the
ART Journal observes, "Rarely, if ever, have we seen animal
life more forcibly and beautifully depicted than in this really
splendid volume."
Also, an Edition in royal folio, handsomely bound in Morocco

elegant, Proofs before Letters, each Proof signed by the Engravers.

Price 8/. Ss.

Wollaston. — LYRA DEVONIENSIS. By T. V. Wollaston,
M.A. Fcap. Svo. 3-r. 6d.

"ft is the 7vork of a man of refined taste, of deep religious sentiment,
a true artist, and a good Christian." — Church Times.

Woolner. — MY BEAUTIFUL LADY. By Thomas Woolner.
With a Vignette by Arthur Hughes. Third Edition. Fcap.
8vo. $s.

4 ' No man can read this poem without being struck by the fitness and
finish of the workmanship, so to speak, as well as by the chastened
and unpretending loftiness of thought which pervades the whole?'
— Globe.

BELLES LETTRES.

Words from the PoetS. Selected by the Editor of " Rays
of Sunlight." With a Vignette and Frontispiece. i8mo. limp., is.

" The selection aims at popularity, and deserves it." — Guardian.

Yonge (C. M.) — Works by Charlotte M. Yonge.
THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. Twentieth Edition. With Illus-

, trations. Crown 8vo. 6s.
HEARTSEASE. Thirteenth Edition. With Illustrations. Crown
8vo. 6s.

THE DAISY CHAIN. Twelfth Edition. With Illustrations.
Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE TRIAL: MORE LINKS OF THE DAISY CHAIN.

Twelfth Edition. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s.
DYNEVOR TERRACE. Sixth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
HOPES AND FEARS. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. Third Edition.

Crown 8vo. 6s.

THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST. Fourth Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6s.

" We think the authoress of ' The Heir of Redely ffe1 has surpassed
her previous efforts in this illuminated chronicle of the olden time."
—British Quarterly.
THE CAGED LION. Illustrated. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

" Prettily and tenderly written, and will with young people especially
be a great favourite.'''' — Daily News. "Everybody should read
this." — Literary Churchman.
;THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS ; or, THE WHITE AND

BLACK RIBAUMONT. Crown 8vo. 6s. New Edition.

"Miss Yonge has brought a lofty aim as well as high art to the con-
struction of a story which may claim a place among the best efforts
in historical romance." — Morning Post. " The plot, in truth,
is of the very first order of merit." — Spectator. " We have
seldom read a more charming story." — Guardian.
THE PRINCE AND THE PAGE. A Tale of the Last Crusade.

Illustrated. i8mo. 2s. 6d.

" A tale which, we are sure, will give pleasure to many others besides
the young people for whom it is specially intended. . . . This
extremely prettily-told story does not require the guarantee afforded
by the name of the author of 1 The Heir of Redely ffe ' on the title'
page to ensure its becoming a universal favourite." — DUBLIN
Evening Mail.

THE LANCES OF LYNWOOD. New Edition, with Coloured
Illustrations. i8mo. 4s. 6d.

" The illustrations are very spirited and rich in colour, and the
story can hardly fail to charm the youthful reader. " — Manchester
Examiner.

,/THE LITTLE DUKE: RICHARD THE FEARLESS. New
Edition. Illustrated. i8mo. is. 6d.

BELLES LETTERS.

Yonge (C. M.)— -continued.
A STOREHOUSE OF STORIES. First and Second Series.
Globe Svo. 2s' ^d. each.

Contents of First Series : — History of Philip Quarll—
Goody Twoshoes — The Governess — Jemima Placid — The Perambu-
lations of a Mouse — The Village School — The Little Queen —
History of Little Jack.

" Miss Yonge has done great service to the infantry of this generation
by putting these eleven stories of sage simplicity within their reach."
— British Quarterly Review.

Contents of Second Series : — Family Stories — Elements of
Morality — A Puzzle for a Curious Girl — Blossoms of Morality.

A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS OF ALL TIMES AND ALL
COUNTRIES. Gathered and Narrated Anew. New Edition,
with Twenty Illustrations by Frolich. Crown Svo. cloth gilt. 6s.
(See also Golden Treasury Series). Cheap Edition, is.

" We have seen no prettier gift-book for a long time, and none ivhich,
both for its cheapness and the spirit in which it has been compiled,
is more deserving of praise" — Athen/EUM.

LITTLE LUCY'S WONDERFUL GLOBE. Pictured by
Frolich, and narrated by Charlotte M. Yonge. Second
Edition. Crown 4to. cloth gilt. 6s.

"'Lucys Wonderful Globe"1 is capital, and will give its youthful
readers more idea of foreign countries and customs than any number
of books of geography or travel." — Graphic.
CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. From Rollo to
Edward II. Extra fcap. Svo. $s. Second Edition, enlarged. 5-r.
A Second Series. THE WARS IN FRANCE. Extra fcap,
8vo. 5*.

"Instead of dry details," says the Nonconformist, "we have
living pictures, faithful, vivid, and striking."

P's and Q's ; OR, THE QUESTION OF PUTTING UPON.
With Illustrations by C. O. MURRAY. Second Edition. Globe
8vo. cloth gilt. 6d.

* * One of her most successful little pieces .... just what a narrative
should be, each incident simply and naturally related, no preaching
or vioralizing, and yet the moral coming out most powerfully, and
the whole story not too long, or with the least appearance of being
spun out." — Literary Churchman.
THE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE; or, UNDER WODE,

UNDER RODE. Second Edition. Four vols, crown 8vo. 20s.

' * A domestic story oj English professional life, which for sweetness
of tone and absorbing interest from first to last has never been
rivalled." — Standard. " Miss Yonge has certainly added to
her already high reputation by this char?uing book, which, although
in four volumes, is not a single page too long, but keeps the reader's
attention fixed to the end. Indeed we are only sorry there is not
another volume to come, and part with the Underwood family with
sincere regret." — Court Circular.

GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.

Yonge (C. M.) — continued.

LADY HESTER; or, URSULA'S NARRATIVE. Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.

" We shall not anticipate the interest by epitomizing the plot, but wi
shall only say that readers will find in it all the gracefulness, tight
feeling, and delicate perception which they have been long accustomed
to look for in Miss Yonge 's writings." — Guardian.

MACMILLAN'S GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.

Uniformly printed in i8mo., with Vignette Titles by Sir
Noel Paton, T. Woolner, W. Holman Hunt, J. ,E.
Millais, Arthur Hughes, &c. Engraved on Steel by
Jeens. Bound in extra cloth, 4s. 6d. each volume. Also
kept in morocco and calf bindings.

" Messrs. Macmilla?i have, in their Golden Treasury Series, especially
provided editions of standard works, volu?nes of selected poetry, and
original compositions, which entitle this series to be called classical.
Nothing can be better than the literary execution, nothing more
elegant than the material workmanship." — British Quarterly
Review.

The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and

LYRICAL POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.
Selected and arranged, with Notes, by Francis Turner
Palgrave.

" This delightful little volume, the Golden Treasury, which contains
many of the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language,
grouped with care and skill, so as to illustrate each other like the
pictures in a well-arranged gallery.'''' — Quarterly Review.

The Children's Garland from the best Poets.

Selected and arranged by Coventry Patmore.

" includes specimens of all the great masters in the art of poetry,
selected with the matured judgment of a man concentrated on
obtaining insight into the feelings and tastes of childhood, and
desirous to awaken its finest impulses, to cultivate its keenest sensi-
bilities."— Morning Post.

The Book of Praise. From the Best English Hymn Writers.
Selected and arranged by Lord Selbourne. A New and En-
larged Edition.

"All previous compilations of this kind must undeniably for the
present give place to the Book of Praise. . . . The selection has
been made throughout with sound, judgment and critical taste. The
pains involved in this co??ipilation must have been immense, em-
bracing, as it does, every writer of note in this special province oj
English literature, and ranging over the most widely divergent
tracks of religious thought."— Saturday Review.

28 GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.

The Fairy Book ; the Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected
and rendered anew fby the Author of " John Halifax,
Gentleman. "

"A delightful selection, in a delightful external form ; full of the
physical splendour and vast opulence of proper fairy tales." —
Spectator.

The Ballad Book. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads.
Edited by William Allingham.

* * His taste as a judge of old poetry will be found, by all acquainted with
the various readings of old English ballads, true enough to justify
his undertaking so critical a task." — SATURDAY REVIEW.

The Jest Book. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Selected
and arranged by Mark Lemon.

" The fullest and best jest book that has yet appeared?' — Saturday
Review.

Bacon's Essays and Colours of Good and Evil.

With Notes and Glossarial Index. By W. Aldis Wright,
M.A.

" The beautiful little edition of Bacon's Essays, ncnv before us, does
credit to the taste and scholarship of Mr. Aldis Wright. . . . Is
puts the reader in possession of all the essential literary facts and
chronology necessary for reading the Essays in connection with
Bacon's life and times" — Spectator.

The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to that which is to

come. By John Bunyan.

" A beautiful and scholarly reprint." — Spectator.

The Sunday Book of Poetry for the Young.

Selected and arranged by C. F. Alexander.

" A well-selected volume of Sacred Poetry." — Spectator.

A Book of Golden Deeds of All Times and All Countries.
Gathered and narrated anew. By the Author of "The Heir of
Redclyffe."

"... To the young, for whom it is especially intended, as a most
interesting collection of thrilling tales well told ; and to their elders,
as a useful handbook of reference, and a pleasant one to take up
when their wish is to while away a weary half-hour. We have
seen no prettier gift-book for a long time." — ATHENAEUM.

The Poetical Works of Robert Burns. Edited, with

Biographical Memoir, Notes, and Glossary, by Alexander
Smith. Two Vols.

" Beyond all question this is the most beautiful edition of Burns
yet ^."—Edinburgh Daily Review.

The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. Edited from

the Original Edition by J. W. Clark, M.A. Fellow of Trinity
College, Cambridge.

" Mutilated and modified editions of this English classic are so much

GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.

the rule, that a cheap and pretty copy of it, rigidly exact to the
original, will be a prize to many book-buyers." — Examiner.
The Republic of Plato. Translated into English, with
Notes by J. LI. Davies, M.A. and D. J. Vaughan, M.A.
((A dainty and cheap little edition." — Examiner.
The Song Book. Words and Tunes from the best Poets and
Musicians. Selected and arranged by John Hullah, Professor
of Vocal Music in King's College, London.

" A choice collection of the sterling songs of England, Scotland, and
Ireland, with the music of each prefixed to the Words. How much
true wholesome pleasure such a book can difiuse, and will diffuse,
we trust through many thousand families." — Examiner.
La Lyre Franchise. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by

Gustave Masson, French Master in Harrow School.

A selection of the best French songs and lyrical pieces.

Tom Brown's School Days. By An Old Boy.

" A perfect gem of a book. The best and most healthy book about
boys jor boys that ever was written. " — Illustrated Times.
A Book Of Worthies. Gathered from the Old Histories and
written anew by the Author of " The Heir of Redclyffe."
With Vignette.

" An admirable addition to an admirable series." — Westminster
Review.

A Book of Golden Thoughts. By Henry Attwell,
Knight of the Order of the Oak Crown.
tl Mr. Attwell has produced a book of rare value . . . . Happily it
is small enough to be carried about in the pocket, and of such a com-
panion it would be dififiadt to weary." — Pall Mall Gazette.

Guesses at Truth. By Two Brothers. New Edition.

The Cavalier and his Lady. Selections from the Works
of the First Duke and Duchess of Newcastle. With an Intro-
ductory Essay by Edward Jenkins, Author of " Ginx's Baby,"
&c. i8mo. 4s. 6d.

"A charming little volume." — Standard.

Theologia Germanica . — Which setteth forth many fair Linea-
ments of Divine Truth, and saith very lofty and lovely things
touching a Perfect Life. Edited by Dr. Pfeiffer, from the only
complete manuscript yet known. Translated from the German,
by Susanna Winkworth. With a Preface by the Rev. Charles
Kingsley, and a Letter to the Translator by the Chevalier
Bunsen, D.D.

Milton's Poetical Works.— Edited, with Notes, &c, by

Professor Masson. Two vols. i8mo. gs.
Scottish Song. A Selection of the Choicest Lyrics of Scotland.

Compiled and arranged, with brief Notes, by Mary Carlyle

Aitkin. i8mo. 4-r. 6d.

GLOBE LIBRARY.

" Miss Ait ken's exquisite collection of Scottish Song is so alluring,
and suggests so many topics, that we find it difficult to lay it down.
The book is one that should find a place in every library, we had
almost said in every pocket, and the summer tourist who xvishes to
carry with him into the country a volume of genuine poetry, will
fnd it difficult to select one containing within so small a compass
so much of rarest value." — Spectator.

MACMILLAN'S GLOBE LIBRARY.

Beautifully printed on toned paper and bound in cloth extra, gilt
edges, price 4s. 6d. each ; in cloth plain, ^s. 6d. Also kept in a
variety oj calf and morocco bi?idings at moderate prices.

Books, Wordsworth says, are

"the spirit breathed
By dead men to their kind ; "

and the aim of the publishers of the Globe Library has
been to make it possible for the universal kin of English-
speaking men to hold communion with the loftiest " spirits
of the mighty dead ; " to put within the reach of all classes
complete and accurate editions, carefully and clearly printed
upon the best paper, in a convenient form, at a moderate
price, of the works of the master-minds of English
Literature, and occasionally of foreign literature in an
attractive English dress.

The Editors, by their scholarship and special study of
their authors, are competent to afford every assistance to
readers of all kinds : this assistance is rendered by original
biographies, glossaries of unusual or obsolete words, and
critical and explanatory notes.

The publishers hope, therefore, that these Globe Editions
may prove worthy of acceptance by all classes wherever the
English Language is spoken, and by their universal circula-
tion justify their distinctive epithet ; while at the same time
they spread and nourish a common sympathy with nature's
most "finely touched" spirits, and thus help a little to
" make the whole world kin."

The Saturday Review says: " The Globe Editions are admirable
for their scholarly editing, their typographical excellence, their com-
pendious form, and their cheapness." The British Quarterly
Review says: "In compendioicsness, elegance, and scholarliness,
the Globe Editions of Messrs. Macmillan surpass any popular series

GLOBE LIBRARY.

of our classics hitherto given to the public. As near an approach
to miniature perfection as has ever been made. u

Shakespeare's Complete Works. Edited by w. G*
Clark, M.A., and W. Aldis Wright, M. A., of Trinity College.
Cambridge, Editors of the "Cambridge Shakespeare." With
Glossary, pp. 1,075.

77^Athen/EUM says this edition is (( a marvel of beauty, cheapness ;
and compactness. . . . For the busy \man, above all for the
zvorking student, this is the best of all existing Shakespeares."
And the Pall Mall Gazette observes: "To have produced
the complete works of the world's greatest poet in such a form,
and at a price within the reach of every one, is of itself almost
sufficient to give the publishers a claim to be considered public bene-
factors.'"

Spenser's Complete Works. Edited from the Original

Editions and Manuscripts, by R. Morris, with a Memoir by J.
W. Hales, M.A- With Glossary, pp. lv., 736.

' ' Worthy — and higher praise it needs not — of the beautiful 1 Globe
Series.'' The work is edited zvith all the care so noble a poet
deserves y — Daily News.

Sir Walter Scott's Poetical Works. Edited with a
Biographical and Critical Memoir by Francis Turner Palgrave,
and copious Notes, pp. xliii., 559.

" We can almost sympathise zvith a middle-aged grumbler, who, after
reading Mr. Palgrave's memoir and introduction, should exclaim
— ' Why was there not such an edition of Scott when I was a school-
boy ? ' " — Guardian.

Complete Works of Robert Burns. — THE POEMS,

SONGS, AND LETTERS, edited from the best Printed and
Manuscript Authorities, with Glossarial Index, Notes, and a
Biographical Memoir by Alexander Smith, pp. lxii., 636.

"Admirable in all respects." — Spectator. " The cheapest, the
most perfect, and the most interesting edition zvhich has ever been
published.''1 — Bell's MESSENGER.

Robinson Crusoe. Edited after the Original Editions, with a
Biographical Introduction by PIenry Kingsley. pp. xxxi, 607.

11 A most excellent and in every way desirable edition." — Court
Circular. " Macndllari 's ' Globe' Robinson Crusoe is a book to
have audio Morning Star.

Goldsmith's Miscellaneous Works. Edited, with

Biographical Introduction, by Professor Masson. pp. lx., 695.

"Such an admirable compendium of the facts of Goldsmith's life,
and so careful and minute a delineation of the mixed traits of his
peculiar character as to be a very model of a literary biography
in /*#/<?."— Scotsman.
Pope's Poetical Works. Edited, with Notes and Intro-

ductory Memoir, by Adolphus William Ward, M.A., Fellow

GLOBE LIBRARY.

of St. Peter's College, Cambridge, and Professor of History in
Owens College, Manchester, pp. lii., 508.

The Literary Churchman remarks : " The editor's own notes
and introductory memoir are excellent, the memoir alone would be
cheap and well worth buying at the price oj the whole volume.''''

Dryden's Poetical Works. Edited, with a Memoir,
Revised Text, and Notes, by W. D. Christie, M.A., of Trinity
College, Cambridge, pp. lxxxvii., 662.

"A11 admirable edition, the result of great research and of a careful
revision of the text. The memoir prefixed contains, within less
than ninety pages, as much sound criticism and as comprehensive
a biography as the student of Dryden need desire. " — Pall Mall
Gazette.

Cowper's Poetical Works. Edited, with Notes and
Biographical Introduction, by William Ben ham, Vicar of
Addington and Professor of Modern History in Queen's College,
London, pp. lxxiii., 536.

''Mr. Benham's edition of Cowper is one of permanent value.
The biographical introduction is excellent, fill of information,
singularly neat and readable and modest — indeed too modest in
its couiments. The notes are concise and accurate, and the editor
has been able to discover and introduce some hitherto unprintcd
matter. Altogether the book is a very excellent one" — Saturday
Review.

Morte d' Arthur.— SIR THOMAS MALORY'S BOOK OF
KING ARTHUR AND OF HIS NOBLE KNIGHTS OF
THE ROUND TABLE. The original Edition of Caxton,
revised for Modern Use. With an Introduction by Sir Edward
Straciiey, Bait. pp. xxxvii., 509.

"7/ is with perfect cotifidence that we recommend this edition of the old
romance to every class of readers.'" — Pall Mall Gazette.

The Works of Virgil. Rendered into English Prose, with
Introductions, Notes, Running Analysis, and an Index. By James
Lonsdale, M.A., late Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College,
Oxford, and Classical Professor in King's College, London ; and
Samuel Lee, M.A., Latin Lecturer at University College,
London, pp. 288.

"A more complete edition of Virgil in English it is scarcely possible
to conceive than the scholarly tvork before us. ," — Globe.
The Works Of Horace. Rendered into English Prose, with

Introductions, Running Analysis, Notes, and Index. By John

Lonsdale, M.A., and Samuel Lee, M.A.

The Standard says, " To classical and non-classical readers it
will be invaluable as a faithful interpretation oj the mind and
meaning of the poet, enriched as it is %vith notes and dissertations
of the highest value in the way of criticism, illustration, and
explanation.''''

LONDON : R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.

IS/'/ 7-

^^^^^^^ INSTITUTE
3 3125 01360 43&o'

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Full text of "Our sketching club : letters and studies on landscape art"

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